Fire And Ice
by Jaenelle Angelline
Summary: Long awaited sequel to my book 'Flames'. Bobby runs into Amy some time after her release from Mount Haven and falls in love...only to find she's nursing a grudge against Charles. FINISHED. Read and review, please! Thanks!
1. Default Chapter

Chapter 1: In The Dark

                "Ahhh!"

                The cry of pain sounded loud in the relative quiet outside Harry's. Bobby paused as he was about to get into his car, listening. There it was again.

                He closed the car door, his steps quickening as he traced the sound to a group of people standing some way down the block. Eyes wide, he watched as the slender, black-haired girl wearing dark glasses pressed her back to the brick wall ahead of her and brandished the white cane she held like a weapon.

                "Hey!" Bobby yelled. Two of the dark, shadowy figures surrounding the girl turned, and he saw the tattoos on their cheeks. A gang, then. And what were they doing threatening a blind woman? "Leave her alone, dude," he said, tensing, getting ready for a fight if the gang was going to make it an issue.

                Apparently not. They were cowards, Bobby thought as he watched them haul their sorry butts down a nearby alley, vanishing off into the dark. He turned back to the woman.

                She hadn't relaxed, hadn't moved. Bobby held his hands up, even though he suspected she couldn't see him do it. Very few people wore sunglasses at ten at night. And no one carried that unmistakable white cane except blind people. "Hey," he said, his voice carefully soft and non-threatening. "I'm not going to hurt you. You can put the cane down now."

                The woman's cheeks flushed, and she lowered the cane. Her head turned in the direction of his voice, and she straightened up. "I'm sorry," she said softly. 

                Bobby shook his head, then sighed to himself. She couldn't see it. "No problem," he said. "If you don't mind my asking, what are you doing in this part of town at this time of night?"

                "They changed the bus stops," she said quietly. "I got off at what I thought was my regular stop, and started taking my regular route home. If the bus had stopped at the corner of Rosewood and Grant this would be my apartment building right here. It isn't, is it." It was more a statement than a question, but Bobby answered it anyway. 

                "No. You're at the edge of Hell's Kitchen," Bobby said, using the old term for this area.

                The woman sighed. "I'm not that far, then," she said. "Could you do me a favor? Would you tell me what the street sign says?"

                Bobby looked up. "Kent and Fifth," he said. "Where's your building?"

                "275 West Ninth," the woman said. Bobby blinked. "That's four whole blocks away, Miss," he said. "My car's back there--" and he jerked a thumb behind him before he remembered she couldn't see it. "My car's a few feet behind me," he amended ruefully. "I could take you to your building."

                The woman tensed visibly, but shook her head. "The best way for me to learn the new route is to walk it," she said. "Is this Fifth behind me?"

                Bobby nodded. "Yes. Sixth would be the next street down, then Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth. However, you're on the East side of the street. You'll have to cross if you want to hit the West side."

                "Thank you," the woman said. "Thank you very much. I'm Amy." She held out a hand blindly in front of her.

                "Bobby." Bobby stepped forward and took the offered hand. "I'm glad I was able to help." She gave a brief nod and turned, her cane tapping the pavement at regular intervals. Once or twice she stumbled on the uneven concrete of the sidewalk, but she recovered and kept going.

                Bobby had turned to go, but stopped just as he was about to get into his car, his eye caught by something. The retreating figure, once she thought he was no longer watching, had allowed her shoulders to slump and was limping heavily from her left ankle. Bobby stopped, then sighed, locked his car back up, and shoved his keys into his pocket. Least he could do was walk her home.

                "Wait," he said, rushing to catch up. She froze as she heard his footsteps, and he saw her quickly straighten up. _Too proud to admit she's hurting. Oh well_, Bobby thought. Aloud, he said, "Amy, I can walk you there, if you don't mind. The pavement's rough here, and the traffic's kinda busy. Never settles down here completely. The crosswalk lights don't work either." He looked at her. "I'll be your Seeing Eye dog, for lack of a better analogy."

                "You don't need to," the woman said stiffly. "It's not the first time I've gotten lost, and it certainly won't be the last time." 

                Bobby sighed. "I don't mind, really," he said. "And it's going to be harder getting home with your ankle hurting like that."

                "You noticed?"

                "Kinda hard not to, Amy," he said. "Come on. The light's green." He touched her arm lightly, and they crossed the street, her with the cane out in front of her checking for the curb. She got up onto it, and she and Bobby started down the opposite side of the street in a companionable silence.

                Bobby studied the woman walking beside him. No one paid much attention to the lights here in this part of town, so most of them were out. There was very little light available to see with, but what little of it there was enabled him to see that she was probably about his age, maybe a little older. They were about the same height, though it was a little hard to tell with the way she was limping. Her feet made an irregular sound on the pavement, and at the rate they were going, it was going to take forever to get home. He went around to her bad side, took her arm gently.

                She stiffened immediately, sucking in a breath as she pulled away from him. "No," she said. "Don't touch me."

                Bobby shook his head. "Sorry. Suit yourself. I just thought I'd give you a little help; the ankle's not going to get any better with you walking on it. What happened?"

                "I tried to lunge toward one of those stupid gang members and hit him with my cane. The pavement was uneven, and I tripped and twisted my ankle." She made a rueful face as she spoke.

                They crossed the next intersection with little trouble, and started heading up toward Seventh. "If you don't mind my asking," Bobby said, frowning a bit, "What were you doing out so late?" 

                "Coming back from work," Amy said. "I sing at the Starlight."

                Bobby's jaw dropped, and he was glad she didn't see him. The Starlight was a small strip club/bar about halfway downtown. "Why so far?" he said.

                Amy gave a short laugh. "There aren't a lot of places that will give a blind person a job," she said bitterly. "Much less a mutant. I was lucky Mr. Andover gave me a job there. I had an apartment there, but it was too expensive and I had to find another one. The one I have now was the cheapest I could find. I don't make much from singing." She sniffed. "Mr. Andover keeps saying I could make more if I participated in the 'extracurricular activities'," and her tone of voice left no doubt in Bobby's mind what those activities consisted of, "but I won't do it, and I've told him so. He hasn't insisted, thankfully."

                Bobby frowned. "That's not right," he said. "Can't you get a job anywhere else?"

                Amy shook her head. "No one wants to hire people with disabilities," she said. "Just like no one wants to hire mutants. I'm just unlucky enough to be both." She sounded challenging, as if she was waiting for him to reject her because she was a mutant, but Bobby said nothing, and after a few minutes she relaxed.

                They turned onto West Ninth, and a few more minutes of walking brought them to her apartment building. Bobby was glad she couldn't see his jaw drop as he looked up at the building. The wall of it, as far as his arm could reach, was covered with graffiti. Most of the lower windows were smashed, and those that were further up were so grimy and filthy Bobby couldn't imagine anyone actually living there. It was all such a stark contrast to the cleanliness and luxury of Xavier's mansion that Bobby suddenly realized how lucky he was to live there and not here. He felt an immense swell of pity for the woman beside him. She couldn't like living here.

                She didn't say anything about sending him on his way, so he took it as tacit permission to enter and followed her in. The foyer was littered with trash and beer cans; broken glass and bottles were everywhere, and he thought he even saw a used needle in a corner. Amy navigated the piles of trash with the help of her cane, then grasped the rail of the stairs and began to try to haul herself painfully up the steps. He couldn't stand seeing her slow progress, and again took her arm. This time, whether from increasing fatigue or pain, she didn't snap at him. She allowed him to help her up the four flights of stairs to the fifth floor, then took a key from her pocket and unlocked a battered, dented wooden door with what looked like bullet holes in it. Bobby walked in, and she followed him, locking the door behind her.

                He heard her walk off into the darkness, and called after her tentatively, "Uh, Amy? There's no light…"

                "I'm sorry," she called from somewhere off in the darkness. "Switch is beside the door there. Just feel for it." His hands found the switch, and the room suddenly flooded with watery yellow light from the battered bulb in the ceiling.

                In its light he saw hardwood flooring, no carpet. It had been rather stained once; but someone had attempted to sand it and get the stains out. Probably Amy, Bobby thought as he looked at it; her inability to see had made it impossible for her to get the stains out. There was a battered couch sitting back against the wall, a small coffee table sat in front of it, and a TV sat on a low table against the opposite wall. There was a tiled area that he supposed was the 'kitchen'; there was a sink, four cupboards under it and one over it, a small gas stove, and a tiny dormitory-sized refrigerator/freezer combo wheezed asthmatically in the corner. 

                He looked across the room; there was a door to what he supposed was her bedroom, and another one, open, to the tiny bathroom. He looked curiously inside. An ancient white porcelain tub dominated one wall, stained with rust and hard water. The toilet was similarly adorned, and the sink was nothing more than a metal bowl sitting on a tall table. The faucet stuck out of the wall, slowly dripping rust-colored water from its spout, and Bobby watched as the drops disappeared down into a rough hole cut into the side of the bowl with a flexible aluminum pipe trailing from the hole and running into the wall.

                "I'm sorry," said Amy, quite close behind him. He jumped and turned. "I'm sorry, did I startle you?"

                "Ah, no," Bobby said, feeling his face flush as he blushed. "Not at all."

                She stepped back, and he made his way back into the living room. "I'm sorry. I'm blind, so I don't have a use for the lights, usually," she said. "I rarely ever turn them on. Besides they hardly ever work." 

                As if on cue the light went out, plunging Bobby into darkness again. He winced, standing there in the dark. He wasn't used to this pitch-black, unrelieved darkness. "Amy," he said uncertainly.

                Amy walked to the wall, and flicked the switch. He heard the click, but there was still no light. She sighed, then went to her kitchen and dragged a chair over to the floor under the fixture. He heard a sound, as if she were unscrewing the bulb, then a moment of silence. She sighed. "I'm sorry, Bobby; looks like the building super hasn't paid the electric bill again. The electric is all out." She screwed the bulb back in and sighed. "At least I didn't buy any perishables this week. Nothing's going to spoil in the fridge." She sighed. "I rarely notice the electric going on or off, just every now and then in the winter it goes out, and there's no heat."

                Bobby frowned. "It's summer," he said. "It's going to get really hot in here tonight. Isn't the lack of air conditioning going to bother you?"

                She laughed, a short, bitter laugh. "There's no air conditioning in the building," she said. "I tried to get an apartment in the front with windows, but this was all they had when I moved in."

                Bobby shook his head. How could she live like this? "If you don't mind," he said, "how much are you paying for this apartment?"

                "I do mind," Amy said sharply. "It's not really any of your business. Thank you for showing me the way home, Bobby; I appreciate it. Now you'll want to be on your way, I assume." She walked past him and opened the door.

                Bobby felt the displacement of air, but didn't see anything different in the blackness. "Um… Amy?" he said tentatively, "How am I going to find my way out?"

                Amy sighed. "I'm sorry; I forgot. You need light." There was a sudden flare of radiance, and Bobby suddenly blinked as his eyes were assaulted by light from a ball of flame resting casually on air a couple inches off the surface of her palm.

                He blinked again, startled by the sudden light as he was by the sudden sense of déjà vu. He had the vague feeling that he'd watched a girl juggle balls of fire once, long ago; but the memory was buried, and he couldn't pinpoint its origin. 

                Amy led him out into the hall and placed his hand on the railing of the stairs. "I would walk you all the way back down, but my ankle hurts a lot," she said. "Can you manage?"

                Bobby looked down into the dark stairwell, gulping at the thought of going down it in the dark, but nodded gamely. "I think I can," he said. "You don't happen to have a flashlight, or a candle?"

                Amy shook her head. "Don't need it,' she said dryly. "Here. Hold out your hand." He did, and she reached for it with her left hand until she found it, then dumped the ball of flame into his hand. "It's not going to last long once I let it go, so you have to run, okay?" he nodded, and she let it go. Bobby took the stairs as fast as he could, but even so, the light didn't last all the way to the foyer. He had to descend the last flight cautiously, and held his breath until he finally emerged out into the street. He let out his breath as the familiar warm glow of the outside streetlamps met his eye, and he took one last glance at the dark, silent apartment building before he started walking back to Harry's where he'd left his car.

                That odd feeling of déjà vu kept nagging him as he walked. He could swear he'd seen balls of flame being hurled, but he couldn't remember where or when he would have seen something like that. Sighing, he pondered that as he went back to his car, unlocked it, and got in.

                He was still thinking about it as he drove out of the city and headed for home.


	2. Bobby

Chapter 2: Bobby

                "Come in."

                Xavier looked up as Bobby walked into his study. The younger man looked a little nervous, and Charles set down the paper he was looking at. "Uh, Charles? Can I ask you a favor?"

                Xavier's brows knitted. Rarely did Bobby sound that tentative; it must be something big. "Go ahead, Robert."

                "Um…well…you remember the small generator that was in the boathouse before you had it remodeled for Scott and Jean?"

                Xavier had to think for a moment. Yes, there had been a generator, to operate the ramp that raised and lowered boats into the water. "Yes, Bobby. What about it?"

                "Uh, well…I was wondering if I might let a…friend…of mine borrow it until the electricity comes back on in her apartment? Her landlord didn't pay the electric bill, and she has no electric. She's blind, so the lack of light doesn't really bother her, but she can't use her microwave, and she can't cook because the gas isn't on, and she hasn't got any way else to purify her water."

                Xavier's eyebrows rose higher as Bobby recited this list of ills, and blinked at the conclusion of it. "It sounds like she needs a new apartment," he said. "With a new landlord."

                "Well, she's blind, Charles," Bobby said. "She had a hard time finding a job to begin with, and she has to stick with it. But it doesn't pay that well that she can afford to move out of Hell's Kitchen."

                Xavier frowned. "Bobby, given the area that your friend lives in, do you believe that the generator will be safe? I have no problem with lending it out, as it is not currently being used, but should it become damaged or stolen she may not have the means to cover its loss, and she will likely feel guilty about it."

                Bobby sighed. "If something happens to it I will buy another one myself, Charles. But she needs it."

                Xavier pondered that a moment, looking at Bobby standing across the desk from him. The young man was serious, as he was about very few other things in the life that had nothing to do with evil mutants. Outside of his duties as one of the X-Men, Bobby tended to be very easygoing. That extended out to his relationships as well. This was one of the few times he'd seen Bobby serious about a woman. He made up his mind.

                "Very well. Your friend may borrow it until her current emergency has passed. But if it is damaged, or stolen or lost somehow, I do expect you to repair or replace it."

                Bobby let out the breath he'd been holding. "Thanks, Charles. I promise I will." He turned and was about to bounce out the door when Charles called him back. "Bobby."

                "…yes?"

                "Check with Ororo, presently in the kitchen. I am certain she knows where to find the extra water filtration system Jean purchased after the water main burst during the freeze last winter. Your friend will likely need that as well."

                ""Thanks, Charles, you're the best!" Bobby went from serious to excited all at once. Without another word he flew out the door of the study and headed for the kitchen at top speed.

                The kitchen was empty, but he knew where the water filtering stuff was. He walked into the pantry, checked the top shelf. Sure enough, it was there, right by the door gathering dust. He stretched, trying to reach it, but he didn't quite manage it. His hands wouldn't reach the shelf. 

                Aiming his hands at the floor under him, he constructed an 'ice' stool under him to enable him to reach the shelf. He was pulling the box down, blowing the dust off it, when the pantry door opened and Ororo looked in. "Bobby? What in the Goddess's Name are you doing up there?"

                "Just getting the old water filtering thing down. Charles said I could let my friend borrow it until her electric goes back on and the system in her apartment building could start filtering it for her."

                "If your friend did not pay her electric bill it is her own fault, Bobby.." Ororo started, but Bobby cut her off. 

                "Her utilities are supposed to be included in her rent. She paid her rent on time, but her landlord didn't forward her share of the money to the gas and electric company, so as a result, her utilities got shut off." Bobby got off the ice stool and put the box on the kitchen counter, picking up a large bucket and dumping the chunk of already-melting ice into it. He grabbed a mop, quickly mopped up the remaining water, then picked up the box and sped off with it.

                "Hey, Hank?"

                Hank turned at the sound of his lab door opening, and saw Bobby's head poking in the door. "Hello, Bobby,' he greeted the younger man cheerfully. "What brings you down to my bastion of solitude?"

                "I'm sorry to disturb you, Hank," Bobby said, not looking at all apologetic, "But I was wondering if you knew where the old generator from the boathouse was."

                Hank frowned. "In the storage shed behind the garage, I believe," he said after a moment. "What would you be requiring this particular piece of machinery for, Bobby?"

                "I got a friend who needs it."

                "Ah." Hank's monosyllable of choice conveyed understanding. "And I assume that this 'friend' of yours is female?" The pink blush creeping over Bobby's face was answer enough.

                "And what, if I may be so bold as to enquire, would she need this bit of equipment for?"

                "She lives in this really crummy apartment building near Hell's Kitchen. The utilities are supposed to be included in the rent, but her landlord didn't send on the electric company's share of the money. The electric at her building got turned off. I thought maybe the generator could provide the electric for what she needs until the stuff in her building gets turned back on."

                Hank raised an eyebrow. "What sort of girl have you gotten involved with this time, Bobby?"

                Bobby flushed. "She's a really nice girl Hank. She just can't afford to live anywhere else, since she's blind and her work as a lounge singer doesn't pay well."

                Hank raised his eyebrows at that, but refrained from further comment. Instead, he said, "I assume you asked Charles' permission?"

                "Yes." Bobby nodded emphatically. "He said yes. He also said I could take the water filtering system thingy down to her and let her use it until the electric comes back on in the building and he building's water filters can work again."

                Hank sighed. "As Charles has already said yes, I suppose I cannot say otherwise. Just be careful when you go down there to deliver your 'gift', Bobby. I would not want you to be injured."

                "Don't worry," Bobby said. 'I'm not giving you any reason to stick me with any more needles. I just had my arm shot twice yesterday."

                "They were required shots, Bobby," Hank said, giving his friend a mock frown. "Given during your yearly physical. 'An ounce of prevention'--"

                "I know, I know, I've heard it before," Bobby said, waving a hand. "You tell me that every time I have to get shots. I'll see you later." And he was gone before Hank could ask him about his 'friend'.

                Bobby ended up taking the keys to the van, since Remy and Logan had brought the pickup back empty and he wasn't about to go fill it up. With the generator rattling around on the floor of the van, he drove carefully into the city where Amy's apartment was. He locked the van up with a slightly worried look around to check that no one was going to steal it. There was no one around but a little old lady sweeping the sidewalk in front of the building, so he climbed the stairs to her apartment with a light heart, and knocked on the door. "Amy?"

                There was no answer. "Great," he muttered. "Just my luck; she isn't in." He turned to leave—and ran right into the little old lady he'd just seen out front. "Excuse me, Ma'am," he said, and tried to brush by her. She stopped him with a hand on his arm.

                "You looking for little Amy?" the woman said sharply.

                Bobby nodded. "Is she in, or do you know when she might be back, Ma'am?" The woman looked at him, narrowly, and then sighed.

                "Finally that girl bring a boy home. I worry about her. Too much alone, not good for no one."

                "What?" Bobby frowned. Was the old lady babbling?

                She put her hands on her hips. "You young people, you all alike. You no listen to an old lady. 'She old', you think. 'She don't know nothing'. Well I do," she said, poking Bobby's chest with a bony finger. 'I know Amy better than she think I know her. She deserve better than this. You good boy. You going to take her away from all this, right?"

                "Ma'am," Bobby tried to interrupt, but she cut him off.

                "You friend of Amy's, you friend of mine too. Call me Mama Tali. Amy does."

                "Mama Tali, I came here with a gift for Amy, that's all. Do you know when she'll be home?"

                The old lady snorted. "No. That no-good skunk she work for, that Andover, he come this morning, wake the poor girl up, say he need to talk to her. She leave with him in big ugly black car. Didn't say where she going. I see her in the hall, and she say, 'Mamma Tali, take care of Carl for me.' Nothing else. Haven't seen her since."

                "Carl?" Bobby blinked. Did she have a child?

                "Her cat. She not supposed to have pet in here, but he stay quiet, and I tell everybody no complain about him. She have little enough love in her life; her only comfort is Carl."

                "So Amy didn't say where she going, or when she'll be back?"

                "No. She leave with Andover in big ugly black car about four, maybe five hour ago. Not been back since. You go find her? Bring her back before something bad happen?"

                "Do you think something bad will happen to her?" Bobby's pulse quickened.

                The old lady waved her hand. "These walls, they like paper. They no keep someone else's noise out. I hear that Andover in here maybe two, three time a week, arguing with her. He say--" and she leaned in so close Bobby could smell the chili peppers on her breath, "he say she make money, lot of it, if she play with the customer after she done singing. He say she make enough money to move out of here. She say this place is not bad enough for her to sell herself to get out. She say she doing fine. But he don't listen. He keep telling her, over and over, how much she could make if she play a little with the customer when she done singing.

                "I tell her maybe she need to consider it. She need to get out of this ghetto. It not safe around here for her. Two man on top floor, I hear them talk about her all the time, what they want to do with her. At least if she do it at the club there be someone to stop it if it get rough. She can get pill to keep from getting pregnant; and she only have to do it until she can move out. She say no; but I think she thinking about it. Especially after last night, I hear her crying because bad water give her stomachache. I go in, comfort her, make her throw up bad water, then give her a little money so she can go buy bottle water from store down the street." The old lady eyed Bobby up again. "You no answer Mama Tali's question. You going to take her away from here? You going to give little Amy what she deserve, good food, clean water, safe place to sleep? Love her, take care of her? It not easy for her being blind."

                Bobby sucked in a breath. He had seen the rusty water coming from the tap; he hadn't realized that was all she had to drink. He cursed himself for being an idiot for leaving so soon. "It's going to be hard, Mama Tali," he said, sighing. "She's very proud. I don't want to hurt her feelings by implying she can't take care of herself."

                "Pride not going to do her any good if she dead," the old lady said with some asperity. "She sound like she half dying last night. She say she feel like she want to, too. Don't want her to die; she too young to die."

                "I am going to do my best to talk her into moving," Bobby said. "She can't stay here."

                "No," the old woman said. "Mama Tali going to miss her when she go, but she don't belong here. Talk to her. Tell her she has to move."

                "I will."

                Mama Tali nodded, once, shortly, and then said, "You have gift for her, you can leave with me . I give her when she come home."

                "Uh, I'm afraid I can't do that," Bobby said apologetically. "She won't be able to carry it into her apartment, and she won't be able to use it, not being able to see to install it."

                "You bring her that generator?" The woman said. Bobby jumped. She laughed, a dry, crackly laugh that sounded like crumpling paper. "I see through van window. Come. Bring up. I lend you flashlight so you can hook up to her stuff." She saw his mystified, wary look, and she laughed. "She give me spare key so I can let Carl in and out. Bring up. She be surprised when she come home and find everything work." Mama Tali chuckled to herself as she went off down the hall to her apartment. After a moment, Bobby turned and went off down the stairs to bring the generator and the water purification system up.

                It took almost a half an hour for Bobby to figure out how to hook the thing up, and bobby found himself wishing he'd asked Hank to come along. Hank would have gotten the thing hooked up already. He finally got it working, after a great deal of annoyance and swearing, and then set about hooking the purifier to her tap. After some more annoyance and swearing he did get it hooked up, and when he turned on the tap clear water flowed from the spout. Mama Tali cupped her hands under the faucet and drank, then turned to Bobby with a grin. "All clean. You taste!" He did. There was still a sharp, slightly metallic taste to the water, but at least it was clear and not brown. Whatever was left in the water shouldn't give her cramps now.

                "You good boy! Mama Tali know it when she see you!" The old lady slapped his shoulder gleefully, giggling. Bobby smiled at her glee, then went around her apartment, flicking switches. The lights worked, her refrigerator was wheezing along in its corner, and the small microwave clock blinked comfortably on its rickety table. He set the microwave clock, then checked her TV. That worked. He hesitated at the doorway to her room for a moment, but he had to see if everything worked here too. So he flicked on the light.

                A twin mattress and box spring sat against one corner, and cardboard boxes with clothes in them lined one wall. Most, he realized, were dresses for her work as a lounge singer. There was only one box of casual clothes, and one box which contained her underclothing. She had two pairs of shoes sitting beside the door, and a kitty litter box in one corner. There was a small bag of cheap cat food in the corner, and beside it, a box of books with raised bumps on the cover. Bobby recognized them as Braille books, but he couldn't read the titles. He looked around at the bare little room, comparing it with his own comfortably appointed room back at the mansion, and sighed. She was a mutant, so Charles might accept her in; but she was blind. She could call fire; but she couldn't see to aim it or use it. She might as well not have her power at all. Well, maybe he could talk to some of the shopkeepers he knew, and find her a job that paid better so she could find an apartment she could afford.

                He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that when Mama Tali tapped his shoulder he almost jumped a foot in the air. The woman was holding an enormous orange tabby with huge green eyes casually, but her eyes were worried. "Little Amy been gone almost eight hours, now. Not like her to be out like that. This supposed to be her day off; she usually stay home."

                "Eight hours?" Bobby looked at his watch. If it had been that long…suppose she had gotten lost again? Or—he swallowed hard—what if something had happened at the Starlight with her boss? The possibilities, each worse than the last, raced through his head, and he shook his head. "I'm going to look for her," he said. "Can you lock up here, keep things secure?'

                "Yes," Mama Tali said. "You go find her. Bring her back."

                Bobby took a scrap of paper from his pocket, grabbed a pen from his jacket pocket, and scribbled a number on it. "My name is Bobby. This is the phone number to the place I live. If I'm not back with Amy in four hours, at most, call there and tell them you want to speak to Henry McCoy. Tell him I went looking for her, and I'm not back. He'll know what to do."

                Mama Tali took the scrap of paper, glanced atit, and nodded, then watched him drive off with a tense, worried look on her face.


	3. Amy

Chapter 3: Amy

                Amy sighed as she closed the door. If only she had a better apartment, she could have asked Bobby to stay. She would have enjoyed his company; everyone at the club was rough and unfriendly, and it would have been nice to have someone friendly to talk to.

                There was a sudden scratching at the door, and she smiled as she opened it again. Carl wanted to come in. She closed the door, reached down, felt for him. He sensed her hands groping for him, and he pushed up against her arm, purring. She scooped him up, her hand finding the spot just behind his ear that he liked to have scratched, and his purring increased in volume as she rubbed him. "Ah, Carl," she sighed. "You're my best friend, you know that?" She crossed the floor to her couch, avoiding the coffee table from long habit (she had learned where everything was, and never moved the furniture, so by now she could navigate her apartment with little problem.) Her cane was sitting by the front door, ready for when she had to go out again.

                "I met a guy today, Carl," she said to the purring weight in her arms. Carl flicked an ear back; she felt it twitch under her caressing fingers. "Yes, a guy. I know, you're not used to them coming around, are you?" she giggled sadly. "Neither am I. All my experiences with men have been mostly uncomfortable ones." She scratched idly for a moment, staring sightlessly in the air in front of her. "I don't know. Bobby seems different. He's got such a kind voice, and he helped me get up the stairs even on my twisted ankle." She sighed. "I wish I had a better place. I would have asked him to stay. But I felt his arm when he took my hand, Carl, and I felt the fabric of his clothes. Very good material, much better than anything I own. He has money, Carl. And I'm just a poor, penniless girl nobody wants or loves." She sighed again, and buried her face in his fur.

                Carl rolled over, still purring, and lay on his back while he batted at the dark sunglasses that covered her eyes. She laughed gently, then pulled the glasses off and leaned forward to put them on the coffee table. Carl left her lap, springing onto the coffee table to play with the dark glasses, and Amy sighed and got up.

                Her ankle really hurt, and she was hungry. Groaning, she got up off the couch and wandered into her kitchen. She didn't really have a lot to eat. She opened a packet of instant soup, then grabbed her kettle from a cupboard and held it under the tap.

                The water that came out of the tap smelled terrible, and she turned the water off as she bowed her head over the sink. "No," she moaned. She'd forgotten that with the electricity gone, the water purification system that cleaned the drinking water for the building wouldn't work. She dipped a finger into it, then brought the finger to her lips, testing it. It tasted as bad as it smelled.

                She thumped the kettle down on top of the small burner she had purchased and turned it on. Its flame was fed off a propane tank, much like a grill would; it was the only way she could cook her food when the electricity went out. She waited until the kettle was whistling cheerfully for two minutes, then took it off and poured the water into her Styrofoam soup cup. She left that sitting on the counter as she went into her bedroom.

                She took off her shoes and put them carefully beside her sneakers on the floor beside her bed, then stripped off her shirt and pants and wriggled into her black biker shorts and cotton tank top. It really was hot tonight; and in her apartment, with no windows, the air hung heavy and still. Carl would not be with her that night; any moment now he would scratch at the door to be let out again, and disappear for the night. The apartment was too hot for him. She wondered enviously what he would see, slipping down moonlit alleys, maybe finding a female cat to comfort himself with. She would love to be free like that, be able to come and go as she pleased without having to carry that awful cane and feel her way around. People could be very unsympathetic toward blind people; and the world, in general, was not built for blind people. She rarely went to the supermarket; her next-door neighbor would go for her, because Amy couldn't see what it was she was picking up off the shelves. She couldn't see the numbers on the bills she handed the cashier; she had gotten cheated several times when the cashier had given her less change back than she should have gotten and pocketed the rest. Restaurants generally didn't have Braille menus, so she only went to fast food places where she could order some common item that she knew they would serve…on the rare occasion that she could afford to eat out like that.

                She hated her life. Oh, how she hated it. And all because she was blind. Tears filled her eyes, and she sat down on her bed heavily. 

                Her sight had deteriorated after the long-ago car accident that scarred the left side of her body, but she hadn't been faced with completely losing it. Even years of neglect when she was in Blackstone Orphanage, under Mr. Gilmore, hadn't destroyed her sight. That had come later. 

                She still remembered, vividly, the burning of the orphanage. She had lost control of her pyrokinetics, completely, and burned the building to the ground when she went inside it to retrieve the one object she had left from her parents; a slim little volume of her favorite Shakespeare play, King Lear. The book she had left with the man she had thought was her friend, and then had betrayed her, forgotten about her after he had promised.

                Charles Xavier.

                "He promised," she wept, tears falling from her sightless eyes. 'He promised to come and visit me in prison…" and he never had. 

                She had killed, so she figured she'd deserved to go to prison. Mount Haven was the government-run prison for mutants. She had been incarcerated there, and at first she had been confident it wouldn't be that bad. 

                Then the guards and some of the other inmates had taken an 'interest' in her…and in a prison that was bad. She had held them off, telling them that Charles would come to visit her, and if she was bruised or harmed, she would tell him, and they would get into trouble. They had backed off. But months went by and he never came. When they finally decided that he was never going to come to see her, and she had been lying, they dragged her from her cell and beaten her up for lying. After that, she was just fresh meat for everyone. 

                Then on her eighteenth birthday a guard decided to give her a 'birthday present' and entered her cell. She had fought him, kicking, screaming, hitting, biting, until a flailing fist had blackened his eye. Cursing and screaming, he had dragged her out to the small prison yard, tied her down to one of the concrete benches, and taped her eyelids open. He had left her there for three hours during the time of day when the sun shone directly into the courtyard. She had screamed in pain as the sun burned into her eyes. The guard had come back out, cursed her, and dragged her back into the prison. She had been tossed into one of the solitary confinement cells; a pitch-black concrete cell with no light, no bed, nothing. She had been given bread once a day, and water twice a day for a week. When they deemed her sufficiently punished, they tossed her back into her cell; but it made no difference to the light, because the sun had damaged her eyes irreparably.

                The other inmates had left her basically alone after that, as did the guards. They were perhaps a little frightened that she might tell someone what had happened; but her spirit had broken during that hellish week; the pain in her eyes, the starvation and sensory deprivation in solitary, had finally convinced her that no one cared about her, no one would help her, no one loved her. She remained in Mount Haven for three years after the loss of her sight, then the prison board reasoned that her powers could no longer be a danger to anyone, since she could not see to control them. Two months before she had been released, they had a tutor come in and teach her some of what she needed to know to get along. The tutor had shown her the Braille alphabet, supplied her with a cane and her sunglasses, and taught her to walk and get along without sight. When she was released from Mount Haven, six years after she went in, she had nothing but the clothes on her back (supplied by the prison administrators) a hundred dollars in her pocket, the knowledge of the Braille alphabet, and her cane and sunglasses.

                Amy had spent six months in a halfway house for homeless people, but being blind seemed a signal to the other homeless people to paw over her and try to get her under their smelly, unwashed bodies. She had finally found a job at a small Mom-and-Pop grocery store bagging people's groceries; by saving the tips and the thirty dollars a week they paid her she managed to get a room at a small bed-and-breakfast place. There, for almost eight months she found peace; the mistress of the house was kind, and she helped them by learning her way around the dining floor and taking trays to the people at the tables. Here too, she received tips, many people struck by her friendly demeanor and attractive features. Then one night the innkeeper, a chronic alcoholic, tried to force himself upon her. Amy had fled the place, never to return; she could not force herself to sleep with him. Fresh in her mind was the memory of the indignities she'd been forced to endure in prison, and her body was the only thing she had left that was still hers. She would not give that up.

                She had lived on the streets for a few months after that, sleeping in homeless shelters, eating at soup kitchens, and singing for money. It hurt to have to panhandle and beg, and more than once she wondered if she could find Charles Xavier's mansion again and beg him to take her in. But trying to find the place was next to impossible, for a blind, friendless woman; and she was terrified of getting lost if she tried to find his house herself. And she wasn't sure she would be welcome; he had never visited, and she wasn't sure he would even remember her anymore. And she had, over the six years she had been in prison, come to hate him. He had promised, and he'd broken his promise. He knew she had no one else. And even if he had forgotten, there had also been Jean, and the others; if they really had cared someone would have remembered her. The fact that they hadn't meant they didn't care. So she struggled on.

                Then one day, as she was sitting on the edge of a fountain singing for money a man had spoken to her. He had a small nightclub, he told her, and he was looking for new talent to sing. Would she consider it?

                The place disgusted her, especially when she found out that the other girls who worked there were expected to assuage the customers' other hungers. She had told him she would not do that; and he had said she would not be forced to sleep with the customers, though he did tell her she could make enough money to be comfortably off if she did. A lot of the customers approached her and asked; while Amy had never considered herself especially pretty, there was something about her that made one want to turn and give her a second look. But she declined all the offers, and remained a singer only.

                The other women who worked at the club shunned her. They thought she considered herself too good for the horizontal work they did, and her cool reserve irritated them. Amy was hurt, but she did her best to ignore it all, coming in only to sing, collect her pay, and leave.

                Mr. Andover, the owner of the club, saw the money he was losing by not having Amy under the customers. Several of them, upset by her rejection, had never come back. Angry at her refusal, he had docked her pay severely, hoping that that would convince her to participate in the other business of the club. But Amy had taken the cut in pay stoically, moved from the apartment she had been renting to a much cheaper one farther from work and in a much worse area, and continued to sing only. And then he had docked her pay again, a couple of weeks ago, and money got tighter than ever. She had confided her troubles to the kind old lady who lived next door to her, and the woman had told her she should think about giving in. It was only her body, after all; they couldn't touch her mind, or her soul. And as her tiny hoard money shrank she had started to seriously consider it.

                Sighing, Amy broke off her musings and went to the kitchen, retrieving her now-cold cup of soup. It was only money, and only sex. Mama Tali was right, whatever they could do to her body, they wouldn't be able to touch her soul. And no one had to know. She could move out of here to a better apartment, and maybe her new friend Bobby would come to visit her, and she could afford to let herself care about someone other than herself again.

                Carl scratched at the door, and she got up to let him out. She finished off the soup fairly quickly, and sat wondering what to do. Normally she would listen to the radio or TV, the sound of other voices comforting her loneliness, but tonight even that tiny escape was denied her, since there was no electricity. She picked up her book to read, but it was too hot, and she couldn't concentrate, and she had already read it over so many times she knew it by heart.

                Overwhelmed with loneliness, she retreated into her bedroom and slammed the door, ignoring the fact that everyone in the building could hear it, and curled up on her bed, crying, until she finally fell asleep.

                She woke some time later, her stomach cramping urgently. She knew the feeling; boiling her water hadn't gotten rid of all the bad stuff in it, and her stomach was rebelling.  But her body was fighting equally hard to keep it all in; she hadn't had anything else to eat today. She crawled into her bathroom, her body shaking and her stomach cramping, and bent over the toilet. The smell of the stagnant, rotten water in the toilet (the sewage pipe had gotten backed up somewhere) triggered her vomiting reflex, and she heaved up what was in her stomach.

                But the water was already firmly in her system, and nothing was going to help it until her body flushed it out. She curled up in a corner of the bathroom, ignoring the sharp edges of the loose tile that cut into her skin, and shook with the heaves that wracked her body and cried. She would have to do it. She couldn't continue to live here. She would go see Mr. Andover the next day and tell him she would take customers. 

                She didn't know how loud her sobs were until suddenly a hand touched her arm. She sobbed weakly and leaned into the touch; the smell of Mama Tali's perfume and the feel of her dry, wrinkled skin against Amy's told her who her visitor was. "I…I drank some of the water, Mama," she sobbed. "I had to, I'm s-s-so hungry and thirsty, and now my stomach hurts, it really really hurts, oh, Mama, what have they done to the water this time?" She bent double, shaking and crying. "I'm going to die, oh, Mama, I want to die, nothing could be worse than this, not even whoring myself out could be worse…"

"You are not going to die. Silly girl. Come with Mama, now." And the older woman wrapped an arm around her and helped her stand. She led the girl through the dark apartment, out into the hall, and into her own apartment, and here there was some relief, because Mama Tali had gotten her ancient, battered old generator to work, and she had a fan going. The cool air washed over Amy's fevered skin, and she sighed.

                Mama Tali dropped the shaking girl into a chair and went to a cabinet over the sink, taking down a bottle. She shook it up, poured some into a battered spoon, and held it in front of Amy's lips. "Take it," she said. "Medicine. It will help your stomach feel better." Amy swallowed it obediently.

                Half an hour later she was seized with stomach cramps, even stronger ones this time. She ran to Mama Tali's bathroom, bumping into chairs, tables, and other furniture along the way, and threw up, then voided her bowels as well. And afterward, as she crawled weakly out of the bathroom, feeling the cramps abate and thirst set in, Mama Tali helped her sit in another chair and gave her sips of bottled water until her stomach finally calmed.

                "Thank you, Mama," she said weakly. The old woman shook her head. 

                "Such a polite child. Come on. Take this." And she shoved into Amy's hand several coins. Amy could feel the cool hardness of dollar coins, the ridges on quarters, the smooth thick edge of several nickels, and the flat copper disc of pennies. 'Go down to the store at the corner and buy yourself some bottle water. Better for you than this sewage here."

                "Mama," Amy felt the weight of the coins in her hand and tried to give it back, but Mama Tali folded her fingers over the fistful of money and led her over to the door. 

                "Don't argue with your Mama, child. Go." She closed the door firmly, and after a moment she heard Amy's halting footsteps traveling the hall to her own apartment to pick up her cane.

*                                                              *                                                              *

                Amy stirred and sat up, moaning at the ache in her head. Her skin was dry, though, and when she touched her forehead she was no longer sweating. 

                The knocking at her door came again, and she sat up. She walked to the door, found the knob, and pulled it open.

                Carl streaked past her legs, but she barely noticed his entry because her nose was filled with the odor of Mr. Andover's expensive cologne. "Mr. Andover?"

                "Amy. I came to ask if you might reconsider. Someone heard your singing last night, and he said he will give me a generous 'donation' to the club if you will spend the day with him. He wants to pay me a thousand dollars, girl, and you will get four hundred of it if you go with him."

                Four hundred dollars! Amy's eyes widened. Who would pay that much for her? 

                Andover grabbed her arm. "You're coming with me. I don't care what kind of squeamishness you have going, you are going to go with him today. I need that money too badly." He started to drag her out, then wrinkled his nose. 'Whew. You stink. What have you been doing, throwing up on yourself? Clean up before we go. I'll wait."

                Amy sighed. She had made up her mind last night she was going to do this; might as well be for  this amount of money. Four hundred dollars…she could go back to her old apartment with that amount of money! "I can't shower, Mr. Andover," she said. "The water's dirty."

                "Oh for God's sake," Andover got up. "Come with me. You can use the girls' shower at the club, and then I'll take you to his house. He's waiting there for you. Be glad, girl, most of my girls never see the fancy places these rich people have." Taking her arm in a firm grip as if he was afraid she would change her mind, he started to tow her out of the building.

                Amy stopped him as she saw Mama Tali in the hall. "Mama Tali, take care of Carl for me, please? He's in my apartment." And then Andover tugged her arm again, and she followed him meekly out, getting into the backseat of his long black Lincoln with him. She didn't see Mama Tali come out of the apartment building behind her to watch the car drive off. 


	4. The Client

Chapter 4: The Client

(Author's note: The version of The Kingpin used in this chapter and the later appearance of Daredevil is movieverse. I'm only borrowing, not keeping, and will return all characters to Marvel when done, so don't sue! I have no money anyway!)

                Starlight was closed, the front door locked. Andover took Amy around to the back, yanking her long, ignoring the white cane that dragged uselessly behind her. He pulled her down the hallway to the girls' dressing room, taking her through it to the bathroom and pushing her into the shower. He reached out at random, snagged a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap, and shoved them into the shower with her. "Take off your clothes," he snapped at her. Amy hesitated a moment, then obeyed. It didn't matter anymore. 

If he was shocked at the appearance of the scar tissue running down the side of her body he didn't say anything. He took the clothes she handed him, then came the sound of the shower curtain rings sliding on their bar. Amy felt for the taps, turned the hot water on and waited for it to get warm, then turned on the cold tap and fiddled with the knobs a bit until the temperature was right. She worked the shampoo into her long black hair, enjoying the feel of warm water on her bare skin. Leaving the shampoo in (a lesson she had learned long ago in the prison; she shampooed, then washed the rest of her body, then rinsed her hair; the scent of shampoo would stay in longer, and if she was going to have to go and have sex with a stranger she wasn't going to go smelling like a homeless person.)

                When she finally turned the water off Andover shoved in a towel, which she used to dry herself off. Then he shoved what felt like a handful of elastic at her. She tried to figure out what it was.

                "Oh for God's sake.' Andover yanked it out of her hand. "You'd think you'd never seen a string bikini before."

                "But I haven't," Amy said. "How is this supposed to go on?"

                So he dressed her, and it felt weird to Amy, being dressed by someone else. Almost as bad was what he was putting on; a tiny triangle of fabric covering the front of her crotch, and strings going up the back and around the sides. The bra, too, was similarly skimpy; triangles of fabric over her breasts, with strings tying across her back and up behind her neck. Then a tight little shirt, and finally a miniskirt that left her feeling both clothed and unclothed at the same time. It was a most peculiar feeling. Then Andover brought a pair of shoes for her feet, and guided her feet into them. When he got them on, and Amy stood up, she found herself teetering on the top of five-inch stiletto heels. "I can't walk in these," she protested, but Andover was more worried about his money than in what she could or couldn't do. Amy took a couple of halting steps until she got used to the height and found her balance, then put on her sunglasses and picked up her cane. Andover pushed her down the hall and back out to the car, and she got in awkwardly, tugging at the back of the skirt in a vain attempt to keep it from riding up behind her. Andover slapped her hand away. "Stop it. The customer gave me these clothes for you because he wants you to wear them, and look like a slut. Leave it be." Stunned into silence, Amy sat back uncomfortably as the black Lincoln sped through the streets.

                The trip seemed to stretch on. Amy twisted her fingers nervously. What would she be expected to do? Open her legs for this stranger, certainly. Would he use her mouth, as the guards and inmates at the prison made her do? Would he make her sing for him, or was his interest only in her body? Would he be kind, or would he want to hurt her, make her cry and beg? She was terrified, and tried not to show it as the car went on through the streets to its destination.

                It finally stopped, and Amy almost refused to get out, so great was her terror. Andover sensed her hesitation, and grabbed her arm, dragging her out of the car. "Obey this client," he hissed. "Obey him, instantly and completely. He's roughed up one of the girls before, Rosalie, when she didn't obey him. Not bad, but he did hurt her some. You don't want it to happen to you, obey him completely. Let him do whatever he wants to do. If he's not happy with you, he won't pay the full amount, and it will come out of your share, not mine. I did what I was supposed to do; it's your turn. You do what you're supposed to do." And he pulled Amy up onto a doorstep she couldn't see and stumbled over, and rang the bell.

                There was a whoosh of cool air, welcome in the searing heat of the New York summer, and Andover shoved her forward. "This is the girl Mr. Fisk asked for," he said, and Amy would have turned and run if she could. Mr. Fisk. She'd heard enough about him in the news to know that the thousand he was paying Andover was just chunk change. And she'd also heard he was, unofficially, the 'Kingpin' everyone feared. 

                She was commanded to come forward by a cool voice, and she extended her cane out before her and stepped into the house. The door closed, and she reached out blindly, feeling for Mr. Andover. He was not there.

                "He is not here," came the cool voice again; a butler of some sort, she supposed. "Mr. Fisk asked that you be brought up alone. Come with me. You are blind?"

                "Yes," Amy managed through a dry mouth. "I don't wear my glasses during performances, because people like to see my eyes, Mr. Andover said."

                An arm was placed under hers, and she felt the texture of the sleeve. Good fabric, but a lot of starch. She was correct; he was a butler. The man steered her across a wide expanse of floor, then said, "There is a flight of steps in front of us. Can you find the first step?"

                With his help she got up the stairs. At the top he steered her down what seemed to be an unending hallway, before they turned right. Another unending hall. Amy tapped in front of her with the cane, until suddenly her cane encountered a closed door, and the butler leading her stopped. He rapped twice, sharply, on the door. "Mr. Fisk. The girl from the nightclub is here."

                Abruptly the blockage in front of her cane was gone, and Amy took a tentative step forward. The butler led her in a few steps, then a cold voice snapped out, "Stop." Shaking again, Amy stopped. The voice…dear God, that voice. Someone large, almost certainly; and someone who was not happy with her. What had she done? Was she going to be killed now?

                "What is that thing she is holding?" the cold voice came again. 

Amy couldn't get a word out, so after a moment the butler spoke for her. "A cane, Sir. She is blind."

                "Blind?" And Amy shook harder, because the anger behind that voice was almost tangible.

                "I am blind, Sir," she found herself saying, in a much calmer tone than she thought she was capable of at the moment. "I am sorry Mr. Andover did not tell you. I don't wear my glasses during performances because he says the customers want to see my face."

                Fisk rose from the padded leather chair he was sitting in and took two swift steps to the girl. He yanked off her glasses, stared for a long time into the wide, unseeing violet eyes. "Pretty," he said. "But blind. Ah, there are always flaws, even in the most precious of jewels, are there not, Harold?"

                Amy heard a slight rustle beside her. The butler had bowed. "Unfortunately, Mr. Fisk."

                The cold voice spoke again. "What is your name, girl?"

                Amy swallowed. "Amethyst."

                "Not your stage name, girl, your given name!" he slapped her.

                Amy lost her balance on those impossible heels and fell to the floor, awakening the pain in her twisted ankle again. Her hand came up to cover the stinging cheek, and her voice shook. "That is my real name. I was born in February, and my eyes were violet, so that's what my parents named me. Everyone calls me Amy, though."

                "Ah." Fisk looked at Amy for a long moment. Amy rubbed her stinging cheek, and started to rise, only to be slapped back down by Fisk. "I didn't tell you to stand."

                Amy went to her knees before the huge man. All right. Now she knew what he wanted. Just like the guards at Mount Haven, he wanted her to grovel, scrape and crawl at his feet. Amy steadied her breathing. She could do that. She would have to. More than four hundred dollars was riding on this; Fisk could kill her in a moment, in a heartbeat. She would never see it coming, and no one would ever miss her except Mama Tali. Maybe. Her life depended on her obedience right now.

                "Harold."

                "Yes, Mr. Fisk?"

                "You may leave us now."

                "Very good, Sir." There was the sound of receding footsteps, and the door closed. Amy was alone with one of the most powerful men in New York City.

*                                                              *                                                              *

                He walked in a circle around the kneeling girl. Contrary to his tone, he was pleased. She had a nice face, a trim, slender figure, and nice eyes. And she appeared to know that her place was at his feet, which was better. 

                The only drawback was that she was blind. Fisk loathed blind people, mostly because his worst enemy was one. Daredevil. The red demon was a constant thorn in his side.

                Maybe he would rough this girl up. Leave her as a message for his adversary. He envisioned dumping her bruised, battered body in the middle of Hell's Kitchen as a message for Daredevil. An example. Yes, that would do nicely. But first he would take advantage of this delectable morsel kneeling in front of him. She didn't want to be here, that much was evident in her body language and face. Obviously her employer knew who Mr. Fisk was, and knew the kind of power he held. So he provided a gift meant to appease the big man.

                Fisk stopped pacing and walked in front of her. Her hair hung long down her back; he grabbed a handful of it, breathed the fragrance of roses in its strands, then pulled her up from where she had been sitting on her heels. "Get over here in the corner," and he dragged her into the far corner of his office. She knelt again once he had her where he wanted her without being told to.

                He was satisfied, and sat back down in his chair. Picking up a piece of paperwork, he said to her, "Sit back on your heels." He knew her legs were going to be cramping badly in that position, and her knees must be hurting, ground into the hard, unyielding black marble of the floor in his office, but he didn't care. She obeyed, despite the pain she must be in. "Sing for me. Anything you like." She was quiet for a moment, but as he was about to go over and slap her, she opened her mouth and began to sing. He listened absently as he resumed what he was doing. She had a good voice, though it was untrained. She sang on-key, her voice sweet and low. He tuned her out while he finished his business.

                When he looked back up at her an hour later, she was still singing, though her voice shook a little more than before. He glanced idly at the wall clock; she had been singing almost an hour; her throat was surely going hoarse. He smiled inwardly; he would not allow her to stop until her voice was completely gone, then he would punish her.

                It took another half-hour before her voice broke the first time. It broke again ten minutes later; her throat was raw, and the pain in her cramped legs would distract her more. At the end of the second hour her voice gave out.

                He looked up as she stopped. Her eyes looked sightlessly back at him. They were wide with panic; her throat was working, but no sound was coming out. Fisk grinned. At the club she sang for fifteen minutes and then had a five-minute break to drink and refresh her parched throat. He had given her no such break. Not even the best opera singer would have been able to do much better.

                "I did not tell you to stop." His voice rolled through the large room, full of soft thunder.

                Amy was terrified. She couldn't help it; she tried to tell him that, but her vocal cords refused to produce any more sound, and her words died in her throat. She could only shake, terrified, as she heard him get up from his desk and walk over to where she was kneeling on legs gone numb long ago.

                He grabbed her hair and hauled her up. Circulation began to return to her cramped legs, and the pain made her squeak.

                "So. You can still make a noise. But you make it for yourself, and not for me. Let me see if I can make you provide me with more music. The music of your pain." He dragged her upright, to stand on legs tingling with returning circulation, and slapped her hard. She crumpled, and he grabbed her hair, hauled her up, and slapped her again. She struggled back to her feet, shaking, and presented her cheek for the next blow. Up, slap, down. Up, slap, down. He knew her face was going to bruise terribly, and didn't care.

                He dropped her finally, and she went to her knees in front of his desk again, tears streaming down her face. He hadn't managed to get any sound out of her, though he had struck her as brutally as he could. He looked at her, crying silently, and yanked her head back until her mouth opened.

                When he was done with her he stepped back and looked at her. Her hands gripped the top of the desk, the knuckles white. Her back was to him, the muscles under her skin rippling as she tried to control her pain.

                Fisk grabbed the thin shirt and started to yank on it. It was almost torn before she managed to wiggle out of the rest of it. He tossed it carelessly aside, then ripped off the little string bikini top, leaving her back bare. Her hands started to come up to cover her exposed chest, but Fisk grabbed her wrist and slapped them back to the upper edge of the desk. "Keep them there, or else," he snarled. The threat was sufficient, and the thin fingers grabbed the edge of the desk. She couldn't see him, of course; it was a pity, since he would have like to see a terrified look in her eyes as he pulled the long belt out of his pants.

*                                                              *                                                              *

                Amy didn't know how long she held onto the edge of that desk while the…strap? belt?…pounded the tight, straining muscles of her back and shoulders. She wanted so much to scream, to beg, but her raw throat would not produce any sound but squeaks as livid black, red, purple, and yellow bruises rose on her pale skin. She only found comfort in the fact that the blows that fell on the pale scar tissue on the side of her body didn't hurt as much; probably because the nerves were covered with the layer of scar tissue. He didn't remark on the scar tissue until the blows stopped coming.

                "Put your hands down," came the command, and Amy dropped her hands. It wasn't as bad as the worst beatings she'd received in prison, but it was bad enough to a body that had forgotten what those beatings felt like. She curled up in a ball on the floor, sobbing silently, hugging herself as her back stung and burned. It took a long moment before she realized he'd just asked her a question.

                Something cold and wet splashed into her face, and she turned her head toward it as the cold water trickled into her mouth. She gulped it thirstily, feeling the coolness ease the raw burning of her throat, and thanked God silently that he was pouring it slowly enough that she could drink. He even paused in his pouring to allow her to swallow.

                When the pitcher was empty he put it down carelessly on a small table off to the side of his office and returned to her where she crouched by his desk, gasping. He waited for a good ten minutes until she had regained her voice before he asked her the question she had not been able to hear or answer.

                "What happened to you?"

                Amy took a deep breath. "A car accident, a long time ago, sir," she said carefully, trying to steady her voice. "My grandfather died. I was trapped in the flaming car long enough for the fire to burn me."

                A finger touched the edge of the large scar on her back, and she bit back a scream as it hit a particularly bad bruise. "Please," the word slipped out before she could stop it.

                Fisk had heard a lot of people begging him over the years, usually right before he killed them. He ignored all of them, as a matter of course. But for some reason this soft, half-articulated plea for mercy stopped him, and he withdrew his finger.

                He stood looking at the crumpled figure in front of his desk. He'd never had a girl like this before in this office. Most of the girls brought in here were either groveling abjectly at his feet by now (something that irritated him no end; he usually killed them just because of that) or were still defiant after the beating (he would kill them for that, too.) But this one accepted her position at his feet yet still kept her dignity. As if, somehow, she knew he could hurt her body but he couldn't touch her soul. It intrigued him.

                He changed his plans. She had no one, according to his sources. No one would care about her. He could do whatever he liked to her. Her employer, desperate to stay on Fisk's good side, would, for a suitable fee, save her for him alone. He would make the arrangements. And when he finally tired of her and broke her down to the abject, groveling creature he knew lurked somewhere at the other side of a broken spirit, he would kill her then, and enjoy it.

                But not today. He would let her go today. He picked up her shirt and threw it at her. "Put your clothes back on." She pulled the shirt back on, tugging it carefully over her welted, bruised shoulders, and waited for other instructions. 

                Fisk rang for Harold, and the man appeared several seconds later. "Escort this girl out," he said. "There is no need to eliminate her; she has nobody. No one will care about her. I shall make arrangements with Mr. Andover to have her reserved for my private use. Show her to the front gate."

                "Very good, shall I call a cab?" the man's voice lifted at the end, and though Amy couldn't see it, he was picking up her dark glasses and cane.

                "She can find her way home. It will be better for her to learn how to get here on her own from wherever she lives, because I will require her presence here often." Fisk turned his back on Amy and Harold, facing the window in an obvious dismissal. Harold took Amy's arm and pushed her glasses and cane into her hand, then guided her out of the office and out to the front door.

                The heat hit her like a wave as she was pushed unceremoniously out the front door. Harold strode to the end of the drive, opened the gate, and pushed her out of it, then closed the gate and hurried back to the air-conditioned house without a backward glance.

                Amy was sweating before she had gotten even a short way down the walk. The sweat stung the welts on her back, and she was so tired it was a struggle to continue. The water she had been made to drink had begun to make its way through her body, and she was desperate to find a bathroom. With her cane tapping, she made her way down the walk, listening for the sound of voices. Maybe someone could tell her how to get back to Starlight. Once she was there she could find her way home. She was thankful that this was her night off, though; she couldn't perform with her body in as much pain as it was in now.


	5. Revelations

Chapter 5: Revelations

                Bobby drove to Starlight. It was, as he expected, closed, but there had to be an employee entrance somewhere. He walked around the building until he saw a door ahead opening, and a man emerging from it. "Hey! Mister!" he hailed the man.

                Andover turned, to see a well-dressed young man hurrying toward him. "Yes?" he said. "The club is closed, son, won't open until nine o'clock tonight. Come back then."

                "No, no, I'm not here for the club. I'm looking for a friend of mine, actually, her name's Amy. She's got long black hair to her waist, and she'd blind, carries a white cane and wears dark glasses. Have you seen her? Someone at her apartment building told me she left in the company of the club's owner this morning, and she's not back yet. I really need to find her."

                Uh-oh. Andover looked the young man over. He hadn't realized Amy The Ice Queen had a lover. This could be problematic if he found out where she'd gone.

                "I haven't seen anyone like that today," he lied. "I just came here to pick up some papers for Mr. Andover. He's been in a business meeting uptown all morning. I'll tell him you stopped by, though." He got into the back of his waiting Lincoln, and the car pulled away from the curb.

                Bobby shook his head as he watched the car pull away. The guy had to be lying, he just knew it. Why? What had he done with Amy?

                He retraced his steps around the side of the building and got back to the van, sinking into its cool interior with a gasp of relief. It was so hot out there he thought he was going to fry! He had formed a thin coating of ice around himself while he was walking, but it melted away in the fierce heat too quickly to do anything but leave him with wet clothes. Still, the damp clothing did provide an air conditioning, of sorts, though it made walking difficult.

                He eased out into the evening traffic. Staying several cars behind the black Lincoln, he nevertheless managed to keep the car in sight as he followed it out of the club district and toward the business district.

                Traffic was bumper to bumper, and he was waiting for the light to change at one particularly busy intersection when he saw a flash of white out the corner of his eye. He turned his head slightly, and there, stumbling around the corner, leaning on her cane heavily, came Amy. Her head hung, and she looked like she was in the last stages of exhaustion. Now he knew why she had been gone; the clothes she wore looked like they belonged to a hooker. So her boss had talked her into prostituting herself. He gritted his teeth in anger, and debated whether he should help her or not. She had obviously made her own decision; she would have to live with it. He was about to drive away when she stopped in the shade of a doorway to ret, and a scrap of her torn shirt fell away from her back. He saw a livid black bruise that definitely hadn't been there the night before.

                He sprang out of the van, ignoring the honking horn behind him, and ran to her side. She shrieked as he touched her, but he called into her ear over the din of traffic, "Amy! It's me, Bobby! Come on, get in!" She didn't resist as he led her across the sidewalk and out into the street. He pushed her into the van, and she slid across the driver's seat to the front passenger seat as he got into the driver's side. He drove off.

                He didn't say a word until he got out of the rougher traffic and managed to find a parking lot where he could park. Turning off the engine, he turned to Amy.

                She had collapsed to a lying position across the front seat; Bobby was glad it had bench seats instead of bucket seats. He reached over and took the fluttering scrap of cloth, drawing it back carefully so he could see her back.

                "Amy," he breathed as he saw the livid bruises. "Amy, what happened?"

                Her glasses fell from her face as she raised her head weakly. Bobby was confronted with a pair of wide violet eyes that brought that feeling of déjà vu back stronger than ever. He had seen those eyes before, in this face, on this girl. He was certain of it; he just still couldn't place where. "Fisk," came the harsh croak. "He beat me...it hurt…"

                Bobby blinked._ Did she just say 'Fisk'? The Kingpin? _He thought. He leaned in. "Amy. Did you say 'Fisk'? As in The Kingpin?"

                Amy nodded weakly. "He…paid Mr. Andover…a thousand dollars…to have me for the day…I had to go. He beat me…oh, Bobby, help me, please, it hurts…I hurt…and he says he wants me back…I want to go home, Bobby, please take me home…"

                Bobby stared as her head dropped back to the seat. Fisk. The Kingpin. The master of the New York City underworld. Amy's place wasn't safe if he was looking for her. He had to get her out of the city. It would take longer to find her at Xavier's, and at least the X-Men could help him protect her.

                He took the turn that would take them back to the apartment, and tried to ease the van into a parking space in front of the building. Mama Tali must have been watching, because she came racing out the front before he'd even turned off the engine. "Amy!" she cried in alarm as she saw the semi-conscious figure slumped across the front seat. "Where you find her?"

                "Downtown." Bobby stopped the old lady as she started to try and get Amy out of the seat. "No. Mama Tali, can you watch her until I get back? And can I have the key to her apartment? She's not safe anymore. I'm going to take her with me."

                "What happen?"

                Bobby explained as briefly as he could. "Her boss sold her to The Kingpin. She got beaten badly. He may be out looking for her; I have to take her out of the city. I'm going to take her to where I live; he won't find her there. She'll be safe with me." 

                Mama Tali handed him the key. "I stay with her. Just take her clothes and that fancy stuff you brought earlier. I take care of clearing everything else. When I done nobody gonna think she live there."

                "Thanks." Bobby wasted no more time.

                Disconnecting the generator was simpler than putting it in. And it was only a matter of a few minutes before the purifier was disconnected from the sink. He carried it all out of the building and put it in the back of the van where Charles' wheelchair usually went; then went back in. The electricity came back on as he hurried back into the apartment, and he thanked God silently as he hurried into her bedroom. He didn't pick up the boxes of fancy dresses; she wouldn't need them. He grabbed the box of underclothing and regular clothes, tossed her shoes on top of the pile, and carried them out.

                "Her books," Mama Tali said. "She love her books. Can't live without them. Take them too. If someone search my apartment I can't tell them they mine." Bobby ran in for one last trip, picking up the box of books, then swiped her toothbrush, toothpaste, and hairbrush from the bathroom on the way out.

                Dumping the last box into the back, he was about to climb into the drivers' seat when the enormous orange tabby sprang up into the front seat and lay down on Amy's lap. He shook his head. "Mama Tali, I can't take him." He reached over to push the cat off, and got the back of his hand raked by a set of sharp claws. Mama Tali tried to reach for him, and he fended her off too.

                Bobby sighed. "Okay, I guess he is coming. I don't have time to waste getting a stubborn cat out of the car. I don't know if I'll be able to bring her back here for a visit, Mama Tali, but I'll have her call."

*                                                              *                                                              *

                Hank was in the library looking for a book when he heard the sound of a vehicle door slamming. Going to the window, he frowned as he saw Bobby racing around the side of the van to the front passenger side door. He yanked it open and took the arm of a girl with long black hair. As Bobby pulled her out of the seat Hank realized the girl was barely moving. Abandoning the search for the book he wanted, he headed for the front door at a dead run.

                Bobby met him in the front foyer with an anxious, worried look on his face. "She's pretty badly bruised, Hank," he said grimly as Hank took Amy's other arm. Amy stumbled along between them, not knowing where she was going, and not caring. She hurt all over, and she was exhausted. The sleepless night and the early waking, combined with the beating and the long hours of wandering around the city trying to find the club had taken their toll on her body. She badly needed rest. Her back was a fiery mass of pain. Between her ankles, Carl mewed anxiously.

                The cool air of the mansion felt good against her skin, but she didn't have the energy to speak. She leaned against Bobby's comforting bulk and let him half-drag, half-carry her along. It seemed they would never get to their destination; but finally after what felt like miles Bobby's hands eased her down on something soft. A bed. She sank into it gratefully, and then cried aloud in shock as her bruised, welted back struck the soft surface. As soft as it was, it still hurt. The pressure of her shirt against her back caused a bone-deep, throbbing ache; a bed was worse.

                Bobby leaned over her, speaking gently as he turned her over to lie on her stomach. "Amy. You're going to be okay, you're with me in my home, this is my friend Hank, he'll help you feel better. Let me turn you over, so he can look at your back." Amy nodded, dropping her head down on the soft bulk of Carl snuggled under her chin. After a moment, she forced her hands up, and pulled off the dark glasses shading her eyes. 

                Hank was busy cutting away the shreds of the shirt. She wore no bra, and it was easy to see the livid rainbow of bruises decorating her back. He drew in a breath. The bruises were ugly, and he felt helpless, knowing there was nothing he could do to heal them. They would have to fade with time. He could, however, give her something for the pain. And her skin was hot, and dry, so she could probably use fluids too. He got an IV ready, slid the shunt under the sunburned skin of one unresisting arm, then readied another syringe and injected a painkiller into the IV tube. The girl tensed as the anesthetic filled her vein, then sighed in relief as the medicine took effect and the pain receded. She propped herself up on her elbows, turned her sightless eyes in the direction that Hank's voice had come from, and croaked weakly, "If it's not too much trouble, I'm really thirsty…"

                Hank never heard her words. He froze at the sight of that face. "My dear…your name…"

                "I'm Amy," she said softly. "Amy McCarly."

                Bobby heard her last name, and it all clicked. _Amy!_

                "Amy, oh my God, it's you, Amy…Oh, Jesus, how could I have _forgotten…_" Bobby stared at her in shock.  "Hank…could you get Charles…"

                Amy's head came up sharply. "Do I know you?"

                "Yes…" Bobby said slowly, still reeling in shock. "Amy, I'm Bobby Drake. It's us, Amy, we're the X-Men. Don't you remember?"

                Amy froze. Yes, she remembered. She had spent six years in prison dwelling on every detail she could remember of her so-brief stay at the mansion. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I remember." She pulled herself up off the bed, painfully, and said, "Take these things out of me and let me go."

                Bobby froze again. "Amy, why?"

                She opened her mouth to answer, but never got the chance. The door to the medlabs opened, and Xavier came gliding in on his hoverchair—and froze when he saw the girl sitting on the bed.

*                                                              *                                                              *

                Charles stared at the girl. In one moment, the events of six years ago came rushing back, as clearly as if it had been yesterday. The violet eyes were the same, the long dark hair was the same, the sweet voice was the same, although it now held the slightly deeper tones of a woman's voice, instead of the high pitch of a girl's voice. She would be, what, twenty-two now? He brushed the thought aside for now.

                She still looked the same; her hair was the same. But there were lines etched into that small face now, lines that hadn't been there, or had only just started to form when he had last seen her. And most startling of all was those blank, glazed, sightless eyes. "Amy," he whispered, shocked. "What happened?"

                Her face turned in the direction of his voice, and tears started filling those eyes. "What do you care?" and the bitterness in that voice shocked him. "You never cared before."

                "What?" his brow creased in puzzlement, and he felt the girl's despair as those tears fell unheeded down the sunburned cheeks. 

                "You don't even remember."

                Xavier bit his lip. What was it that was so important that she remembered, and he had forgotten? "Forgive me, Amy," he said as gently as he could. "I don't remember; it was a long time ago. Can you tell me?"

                "A long time. Yes, it's been a long time. Seven years and eight months, it's been, since I last saw you. And four months since I last saw anything." The voice was soft, but the bitterness was still painful to hear. Xavier swallowed hard. _What had happened to her?_

                Amy laced her fingers tightly in her lap to stop them from shaking. "You promised. You promised to come visit me. Do you remember, now?"

                And Xavier suddenly remembered. "Yes," he whispered. "Oh, Amy, I'm so sorry…" but she cut him off.

                "I was a fifteen year old in Mount Haven for murder. The inmates might all be mutants, but it doesn't mean that the same thing doesn't happen there that happens in all prisons." Xavier drew in a breath, shocked, as Amy rushed on. "The inmates and the guards took interest in me right away. They wanted me to do the most horrible things with them, like the stuff Greg Gilmore wanted me to do. I told them that they had better not hurt me, that _you_ had promised to visit me and I would tell you everything they did to me, and you'd make them stop. So they left me alone. 

                "Months and months went by, and you never came. Six months after I went in, the abuse started. They called me a liar. The guards punished me. Then the other inmates beat me. My glasses got broken, and I could barely see anything without them. The guards decided I wouldn't be a threat to any of them because I couldn't see, and they started having me spend nights with various people. They'd make me do all kinds of things to them, but they never raped me because the warden forbade them.

                "On my eighteenth birthday he came into my cell. Said he didn't condone underage sex, but now that I was legal they could do what they wanted, and he said he'd be the first. He started to pull my uniform off.

                "I couldn't let him do that to me. I fought. And I gave him a black eye and scratched his eyeball. It got an infection and took a long time to heal. It hurt. When he came back he dragged me into the courtyard, tied me to a bench and strapped my head down, then he taped my eyelids open. He just wanted to punish me, I think, but he left me there and forgot about me. The sun shone down on me for three hours. Three hours I lay there, while the lens in my eyes fried. Someone finally heard me screaming and brought me in. They threw me into The Coffin, as we all called the cells in the solitary confinement part of prison." She swallowed. "The cell walls and floor are concrete, five feet long, four feet tall, and three feet wide. There are no windows, no lights, no toilet facilities. There was just a hole in the middle of the cell to relieve myself, and a small slot in the door for them to shove food and stale water in once a day. I couldn't stretch out, I couldn't stand upright, I could barely lie down. It was cramped. I had no clothes, and the concrete rubbed my sunburned skin raw. It was always cold.

                "I was in The Coffin for a week. When I got out, I found that the unremitting blackness wasn't the cell, even though it didn't have light. It was my eyes. The sun had burned them, and I was blind. Permanently. The guards loved it. They loved watching me fumble around; hugging the walls, crawling on the floor. They would taunt me; they'd put a cup of water on the ground in the courtyard and make me crawl around looking for it while they hit me with stuff. The inmates molested me. It went on until a new warden came.

                "He put an end to all of it. He stopped the guards from hurting me, he put an end to the humiliation and the abuse and the pain. And when he reviewed my records, he decided I didn't need to be in prison anymore. I couldn't see anything; how could I use my powers? So he sought and got permission for my release, and he brought this blind man into the prison shortly before my release to teach me some basic stuff, like Braille. And when I was finally released, he gave me a pair of dark glasses and my white cane. I slept in a homeless shelter for a while before I found a job at a mom-and-pop grocery store bagging people's groceries. They went out of business, and I got a job as a server for a bed-and-breakfast place. The lady was nice, but the guy tried to rape me one night, and I ran away.

                "I went back out on the streets, sleeping in shelters and singing for money on street corners, and one day this man stopped and asked me if I wanted a job singing at the Starlight. With the money I made I was able to get my first apartment downtown. He kept telling me I could make more money if I did some 'horizontal work' in the back with the other strippers, but I couldn't do it. One night a customer asked for me, and I said no, and he got mad, and left. Mr. Andover cut my pay. I had to find a cheaper apartment, and the only one I could find was in Hell's Kitchen. I took it. 

                "He kept pressing me to accept customers, but I kept refusing. Two weeks ago he cut my pay again. I'm having trouble affording what I have now. And this morning, he came to my apartment and said a customer had paid him a thousand dollars to have me for the day, and he wasn't going to let me refuse. He dragged me out to the club, dressed me in these clothes, and took me out to meet the customer." Amy took a deep breath. "It was Mr. Fisk."

                Xavier's blood went cold. The Kingpin was a powerful enemy to make. Amy wasn't safe in the city if he was looking for her. He understood now why Bobby had brought her here. "He made me sing for him." Amy's voice was barely above a whisper. "He made me sing and sing until my voice gave out, and then he punished me with a beating. That's how I got these bruises." And her head dropped, and she started to cry in earnest. "I was…so scared…no one cares about me…no one would miss me if he killed me…he could do it as easy as breathing…and I'd never see it coming…oh God…"

                Bobby sat down on the bed beside her, and Amy leaned her head on his shoulder, sobbing into his shirt. He held her, and shushed her, and let her cry as Xavier digested her story.


	6. Settling In

Chapter 6: Settling In

Xavier raised his head finally. "Amy, when you got out why didn't you come here? When I saw you the last time I told you that if you wanted to come here this could be your home. Why did you not come to seek us out?"

Amy raised her streaming eyes, though she didn't let go of Bobby's shoulder. "I had spent all those months waiting for you to come visit, and you never did. I didn't know if you had forgotten, or if you just didn't care anymore. I was afraid to get my hopes up, and I was terrified you would turn me away. And I couldn't get here. The world is not designed to help people with disabilities. I can't even go grocery shopping, because I can't see what I'm picking out. I can't find jobs, because there are so few things that a blind person can do, and even fewer people willing to hire us. There are so few books written in Braille, and the phone book isn't one of them. I tried, once. I found an old phone book and asked someone on the street to find the number for me. Do you know what he did? He laughed at me. And then he threw the book at me and walked away. I didn't dare ask anyone after that."

"You asked Bobby, just now, if he would take you home. Do you truly wish to leave?"

Amy drew herself up. "Yes. You don't care, obviously, or you wouldn't have forgotten about me. I won't stay where I'm not wanted."

Xavier sighed. "Amy, please believe me when I say I'm sorry I forgot. I'm a busy man, and a lot has happened in the last six years. I would like you to stay. Give me a chance to make it up to you. Besides which, the Kingpin is out looking for you. Do you want him to catch you?"

Amy's lower lip trembled. "No," she said. "Mr. Andover sold me to him. He wants to play with me a while longer before he kills me. And I'm terrified, I don't want to die. Not the way he's likely to kill me."

Xavier said, "He won't touch you here. I promise you that. Amy, please. I don't want him to kill you. If you leave, I'll feel like I've failed you again. Please stay. If you are very unhappy, I will make other living arrangements for you, somewhere he won't find you. But please give us a chance."

Amy thought for a moment, then nodded reluctantly.

*                                                              *                                                              *

                Jean walked in the front door and froze. **Charles?**

                Xavier himself still sounded amazed. **Your eyes aren't deceiving you, Jean. It's Amy. She was released from Mount Haven some months back because she went blind due to an…incident. They decided she couldn't possibly be a threat anymore because she could no longer see to use her powers.**

                **Oh, God, Charles. Amy. How could we have forgotten her? She must hate us now.**

                Xavier sighed mentally. **Not so much you, as me,** he admitted. **I promised to visit, and I didn't. The inmates and guards decided no one would care if she was injured, and subjected her to a number of indignities. She tried to fight the warden when he came to abuse her, and she injured him. In revenge he taped her eyes open and left her outside at noon. She is now permanently blind.**

                Jean gasped. **Oh my God. Oh, poor Amy. Charles, isn't there anything the medical equipment can do?**

**                Unfortunately not, Hank says. Jean, I feel terribly guilty for forgetting about her.**

**                You couldn't help it, Charles,** Jean said comfortingly. **A lot has happened since we last saw her.**

**                It still doesn't make me feel any better,** Xavier insisted**. She doesn't want to be here, but I insisted. The Kingpin is looking for her in the city; her employer at the strip club—**and Jean heard the disgust in Charles' mindvoice**—sent Amy to the Kingpin this morning. Fisk apparently heard her singing and paid Amy's employer to 'have her' for the day. She was beaten badly and tossed out into the street. It took her most of the day to figure out where the club was so she could try and get back to her apartment in Hell's Kitchen.**

**                Hell's Kitchen…for a blind woman? Oh jeez, Charles.**

**                Bobby ran into her not far from the club, stumbling down the sidewalk, far gone in heat exhaustion. She's got a bad sunburn as well as terrible bruising on her back. I couldn't let her go back to her apartment, as much as she wanted to. She's too easy to find. I told her she could stay here, and if she proved really unhappy, I would find somewhere else for her to live. But I want her to stay here with us for a while.**

Jean smiled gently. Bobby had seen her, and nodded a greeting to her, but Amy wasn't aware of her presence yet.  She was feeling her way slowly down the hall, trying to acquaint herself with the location of everything in her way. The sound of her cane tapping on the floor provided a soft counterpart to Bobby's patter of speech. Jean followed them, watching.

                "There's a hall table just in front of you, Amy. No, off to your right a little. That's it." He took her hand and gently stretched it out to the table, then ran her hand along it. "It's solid wood, with a dark cherry finish. I think 'Ro was dusting it earlier."

                "She was," came Amy's reply. "I smell furniture polish. And there's no dust." Her hand ran along the table as she passed it, then she stretched a hand out on front of her uncertainly as her cane hit something solid. "Bobby? What is it?"

                Bobby said, "There are three steps going up to the kitchen. They're shallow, maybe two inches high at the most. Here." He took her arm, led her gently up to the step, and helped her balance as she tried to put her foot on the first step. "They're only two inches deep, so there's not much of a step there for you to stand on. I didn't even think about them; most of us just jump them." He grinned, though Amy couldn't see it. "I used to bring my skateboard in here and use it to practice jumping. Jubilee had a heck of a time with her rollerblades too." He eased her up the next step. "One more, now," and Amy was standing in the kitchen.

                He paused there in the door. Where to start? The kitchen was huge. He sighed. He took being able to see for granted. How was he to explain how everything looked, and where everything was, to someone who could not see?

                Jean sensed his dilemma. "Bobby," she said gently, taking Amy's other arm. "Maybe this will be easier. Amy, will you let me into your mind?" She felt the other girl's resistance. "I'm not going to rummage through it. I can show you what I see. It will be easier for you to get an idea of what the mansion looks like through my eyes." After a moment, Amy let Jean into her mind.

                Before her mental eye the kitchen unfolded. The sink and dishrack just beside the open kitchen door; the dishwasher under it, the countertop with its assortment of jars and containers filled with spices and cooking aids; the two coffeemakers sitting side by side at the end of the counter beside the big stainless steel refrigerator, and the refrigerator itself, with it's shopping list hanging on it from a magnet, and other messages that the mansion's residents left for each other. Then the large kitchen table with its six chairs and its warm honey walnut finish pushed over in the corner to leave the front of the back door open; and everything bathed in the warm orange glow of late afternoon sunshine flooding in from the huge kitchen window.

                Still mentally linked to Jean, Amy took a step forward. And it was so peculiar, to see her own body stepping into that picture in her head, but that wasn't what was concerning her at the moment. She crossed the kitchen carefully, watching herself step around the table, and pushed back the curtain in the window. Jean walked into the kitchen, walked over to the window, and looked out, and Amy's sightless eyes filled with tears as she looked out onto the manicured back lawn, the grass green and vibrant, the summer flowers planted in beds around the bases of trees suffused with color. "I missed this," she choked, the tears falling unheeded down her cheeks. "Oh, God, I missed this so much."

                "What's the last thing you remember seeing?" Bobby asked gently.

                Amy sucked in a breath. "Blue sky, clouds drifting by. Then nothing but the terrible blinding brightness of the sun. It burned into my eyeballs, searing my vision with white heat. It was all I saw for days. Finally the whiteness faded to black when I was in The Coffin, and it's been black since." She drew in a breath. "Oh, what I wouldn't give to be able to see again…" Her chin fell to her chest, and she cried soundlessly for a moment. Bobby touched her shoulder, patting it gently as she heaved with silent sobs. She turned away from the window and buried her face in his chest. "Please, Jean," she whispered. "Don't tempt me with the sight of something I'll never see again." Jean withdrew from Amy's mind gently, leaving Amy enshrouded once again in darkness.

                Amy wept against the strong, comforting bulk of Bobby's chest. The glimpse of the garden had reminded her again of just how much she'd lost, and the reminder hurt. Her hands came up to wipe away the tears, and she said "Bobby…I don't remember what you look like…can I touch you?" 

                "Jean can show you," he said, but Amy shook her head. 

                "I'll never be able to see again, and there's no point in wishing I can. I have to deal with what I have. Please, Bobby, can I…"

                "Yes," and Bobby held still as Amy's slim fingers came up. Her fingertips traced the line of his jaw, the smoothness of his cheek (he was glad he'd taken the time to shave this morning) up along the strong, firm planes of his cheekbones and nose, then gently, ever so gently, touched his eyes. He closed them, but he knew she could feel his eyes twitching under their lids. Her hands touched his hair, feeling the tousled strands under her fingers, and she ran her hands through it, gently. He lowered his head so she could feel the length of it in back, and found himself very close to her face.

                Amy felt his warm breath whoosh past her ear. He smelled of peppermints. She turned her face toward the direction that breath was coming from just as he started to pick up his head. Their lips touched.

                Bobby was startled…but her lips were soft against his, and parted ever so slightly, and he wanted to kiss her back…but she'd been through a lot of trauma this morning. He froze, torn between wanting to pull back and wanting to pull away, but her arms came up around his neck and drew him down in a plainly inviting gesture. He surrendered and kissed her.

                Amy lost herself in the kiss, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of her head that warned her not to. It had been far too long since she had felt anyone touch her in a caring, gentle, loving way. As Bobby's hands came up to caress her shoulders (being careful not to touch the bruises) she caressed his waist and firm abs, feeling the muscles of his torso glide silkily under his skin. 

                Jean held her breath, unwilling to disturb them. A distant part of her mind whispered that Bobby and Amy were getting too close too soon, but she couldn't bring herself to stop them. Amy had felt nothing but painful touches and brutal abuse for a long time; it was a good thing that she hadn't allowed it to color her perceptions of another person's touch. A long-buried memory surfaced; Bobby, six years ago, asking Jean if she thought the overseers of the orphanage would allow him to go over there occasionally to see Amy.

                They broke off the kiss when breathing became a necessity, and both stood, breathing deeply and looking slightly flushed. Jean smiled. "Bobby, perhaps you should show Amy to her room. She must be tired, after all that's happened. And she'll want to clean up before dinner."

*                                                              *                                                              *

                Bobby waited in the doorway of the room while Amy went in. She moved hesitatingly, her cane making little sound on the thick carpet as she worked out where the bed, dresser, chair, and standing mirror was. "Is this a mirror?" she said, tapping the large cheval glass in the corner.

                "Yes." Bobby frowned. "You haven't much use for one, though…let me see what I can do; maybe we can change the mirror out for a bookshelf for your books."

                "I'd like that," Amy said, her face brightening. Bobby watched the expressions crossing them; her eyes, though blank, could still transmit a wide range of emotion. She walked carefully across the floor from the bed to the dresser, turned, and went back, several times, counting the steps. Bobby watched her do the same for the mirror, and chair. Finally, she turned. "Where's the bathroom?"

                Xavier had put her in a room with its own bathroom, reasoning that if she had to get up in the middle of the night it would be easier for her to have facilities where she could reach them, instead of having to fumble down the hall toward the bathroom. Bobby took her arm and led her to the desk, then guided her hand to the wall and showed her where the doorframe, and eventually the doorknob, was to the bathroom. She walked inside, felt the light switch, the sink with its taps, then the top of the commode and the seat. Her hand touched the towels hanging on the towel rail, and then her cane stopped at the foot of the bathtub, though her outstretched hand found nothing but air. "Bobby?" she said uncertainly. He went to her side, took her outstretched hand, and brushed her fingertips against the shower curtain.

                Her face lit up. "I'd like to take a shower," she said. "Are my clothes still out in the van?"

                Bobby smiled a little. Ororo had brought the boxes of Amy's things in from the van before she ran out to the local pet shop to get a litter box, litter, and cat food for Carl. Xavier didn't really want pets around the mansion, but Amy loved the cat and Carl was clearly not going to leave her, so he had resigned himself to having cat hair propagating through the mansion. He couldn't deny Amy anything right now; if he did she might take it as a sign she wasn't wanted, and try to return to her apartment. And they were so far away it would take her a very long time to get back there, as well as being dangerous if any of The Kingpin's hired thugs were looking for her. He'd left a message with Matt Murdock to have Daredevil contact him; the 'Red Demon', as criminals on the streets called him, knew every detail of the Kingpin's activities and would be able to keep Charles apprised of the happenings in the city's underworld.

                "Your stuff is on your bed," he said. "'Ro carried it up here while you were taking the tour." Amy hastened back to the bed, almost tripping over it in her haste, and opened the first box. It had her jeans and shirts in it. Bobby noted that the colors seemed to clash; she would need new clothes. Jean would probably be happy to oblige there. Amy grabbed a pair of blue jeans and a bright green t-shirt, then kicked off the high heels she had been wearing and took out her sneakers and a pair of socks, as well as a set of undergarments, and disappeared back into the bathroom. "Amy?" Bobby said to the closed door. "Let me have the other clothes you're wearing right now. I'll toss them out for you. I don't think you want them."

                The door opened, and a hand thrust out a handful of torn cloth and spiked heels. Bobby took them, and the hand disappeared.

                He left her room and went down the hall to drop the clothes in the wastebasket in the regular bathroom. Then he turned and headed back to his room.

                He hadn't closed her room door. Rolling his eyes at his stupidity, he reached for the knob to close the door and froze when he heard her sob.

                He told himself he was intruding, but he couldn't help it. He slipped into her room, closed the door, and went to the bathroom door. It was ajar. He pushed it open just the tiniest bit, and saw Amy sitting on the edge of the bathtub, her back to the door. Her spine was arched as though she was in pain, and she was hissing pained sobs through her teeth.

                "Amy? Amy, what's wrong?" He knelt next to her where she sat crying.

                "The water…it was too hot. It hit my back, and it hurt…" she sucked in another breath through her teeth. Bobby looked at her back. It was red where the water hit it. "I thought it was the cold tap. The left knob was the cold tap back in my apartment."

                Bobby bit his lip. He hadn't even thought about that. Getting up, he grabbed the smaller washcloth and soaked it with cold water in the sink, then carefully pressed it to her back. She hissed, and her face twisted, but she made no other sound.

                He held the cool cloth to her back, trying to ease her pain. He was glad she couldn't see his face, as he looked at her nude body.

                He barely noticed her nudity. She had a nice body, slender and toned, but her skin was marred by the huge mass of white scar tissue that covered the left side of her body.  Over that was more scar tissue from what looked like a bad beating. And on top of all that was the bruises from The Kingpin's beating. "Amy?" he said quietly. "The large scar was from the car accident; Jean told me about it a long time ago when you first came here. Where did you get the other scars from?"

                "The guards were allowed to use corporal punishment, Bobby," Amy replied softly. "They didn't always use it because I did something wrong. And they always drew blood." She fell silent.

                Bobby whispered, "I'm sorry, Amy." He said no more; concentrating instead on what he was doing.


	7. Daredevil

Chapter 7: Daredevil

                "Charles," came a voice.

                Xavier shook himself out of his reverie and pressed the switch on the side of his desk that activated the intercom. "Yes, Ororo?"

                "The mansion's cameras are picking up a small, fast-moving figure coming up toward the house from the west side," came her even tones from the speaker. "It is not yet close enough to trigger the alarms, but it will be here quite quickly. Should I alert the others?"

                "There are no other intruders? This one is alone?"

                "Yes." 

                Xavier smiled to himself. "No, Ororo. I am expecting this particular guest; please do not interfere or hinder his path in any way." He turned off the intercom and went to the small table off to one side of the office, placing his hand against the surface to brace himself as he reached for the catch of his study window and unlocked it. Gasping with effort, he lowered himself back into his hoverchair, then took two glasses out of a side cabinet and filled them with iced tea. Then he reached for the remote to the small stereo on the corner of his desk and switched it on. The soft sound of Bach's 'Air For the G String' began to fill his office. 

                He sat back and sipped leisurely from his glass of iced tea and closed his eyes, listening to the music. Moments later the window behind him opened, and a figure slipped inside, closing the window soundlessly. "Tsk, tsk," the intruder said, shaking a finger gently. "Such lax security, Charles Xavier."

                Xavier opened one eye, smiling dryly. "Hello to you also," he said. "Matt, come on. You what my security precautions are like; what makes you think that I did not know you were coming? Just because you didn't hear the rain hitting my security cameras doesn't mean they weren't there." He opened his other eye and sat up straight in his chair as his guest made his way over to the desk and picked up the glass of iced tea.

                The Daredevil stood on the other side of Xavier's desk, holding his glass in one hand while his head tipped back, listening to the music. He was a trim, wiry young man, with a firm jawline and thin lips that on anyone else would have looked feminine but on him just made him look handsome. The rest of his face was hidden by the dark red leather mask that fit like a second skin and flowed back over his head before angling downward into a body suit made of similar material. The suit fit him well, showing off the strong muscles that enabled Matt Murdock to dance on the highest rooftops of the city in his other persona, and profession, as the Man Without Fear.

                "Bach," Matt Murdock said after a moment, having identified the composer. "Very good choice, Charles. The sound waves produced by his music bounce evenly off everything and give me a very clear picture of you office. You've redecorated since I was last here." And he pointed to the framed picture behind Xavier's desk.

                Xavier chuckled. "Sometimes I wonder if you were indeed born as a mutant with sonar as your power, and it manifested when you lost your sight," he said. "Were it not for the fact that Hank has said you are unquestionably completely human, of course."

                Matt sat down in the chair in front of Xavier's desk and sipped his tea. "What new decoration have you added to your office?"

                Xavier turned and looked at the picture. "It's a copy of Van Gogh's 'Starry Night'," he said. "I find that sometimes looking at the swirl of color helps to order my scattered thoughts."

                Matt raised an eyebrow. "The most powerful mind in the city, becoming disorganized? I find that hard to believe…" and then he chuckled. 'Happens to the best of us. But you didn't request my presence here tonight to chat about your office décor."

                "No," and Xavier put his glass down as he sobered. "I was wondering if you had noticed anything of what the Kingpin might be doing lately."

                Matt frowned. "The usual," he said, leaning forward slightly in his chair. "Murders, drug trafficking, that kind of thing. Nothing out of the ordinary, unless you count the visit he made down to the Starlight two nights ago."

                "Really?" Xavier leaned forward now. "Tell me what you can."

                Matt frowned. "One of his lieutenants apparently went there last Saturday, looking for some fun. He saw a singer there he became enamored with. He told Fisk about her, and Fisk went to see her there last night. He took the club's proprietor aside in the alley last night and paid him to have the singer 'delivered' to him this morning." He paused. "As I was leaving the city to come here I noticed an unusual number of the Kingpin's thugs roaming the streets. I also overheard a conversation between two of them about a girl they were looking for. Apparently Fisk allowed the singer to leave his house alive—a very unusual happening—and then changed his mind later. He invaded Hell's Kitchen looking for her, but wherever she's hiding she is doing so very well indeed. I assume she has heard what happened to her employer and has gone into hiding."

                "Ah." Xavier said, sitting back.

                Matt raised an eyebrow under his mask. "Now I have a question for you. Actually several. Why are you suddenly interested in Fisk, and what he's doing in the city? Isn't your 'specialty' evil mutants?"

                "Normally, yes," Xavier said. "But the singer you were referring to is a 'friend' of ours, and is currently hiding here."

                Matt's eyebrows went up. "Well. The Kingpin will never think to look here for her. This is the absolute last place he will expect to find her. If I'm not prying, how exactly are you acquainted with her?"

                Xavier sighed. "I first met her about seven years ago. She was fifteen, and was living in the orphanage next door. She was being used by the keeper of the orphanage to rob banks. They went to rob Manhattan Savings.

                "The headmaster placed her under some kind of mind control  and used her to kill the other children who were participating in the robbery. Then he tried to flee. She resisted, fought the mind control. Jean helped her break it…but her power went wild and killed the Headmaster and his son, who was the one with the mental talents. She went to Mount Haven."

                Matt sat silently as Xavier took a sip of his tea and continued. 'She was abused terribly in prison. It was partly my fault; I promised to visit her, and I didn't. If I had, the guards would probably have left her alone. As it was, though, they saw this fifteen-year-old that no one apparently cared about, and they did what they wanted to. The warden tried to rape her, and she fought and injured him. In revenge he tied her outside and taped her eyes open. When someone finally brought her in the sun had destroyed her retinas and she went blind. 

                "They decided after that that there was no reason for her to remain in prison. She couldn't see to use her powers; how could she be a threat to anyone? So they released her. She drifted around for a while until one day the manager of the Starlight asked her if she would sing for them. She sang, but she refused to participate in the club's other business. This morning her employer picked her up from her apartment and took her to Fisk. He forced her to sing for him until her voice gave out, then punished her with a beating." Matt winced visibly at this.

                "Bobby has become…involved with her, of late. He found her on the street later trying to find her way home. As soon as she told him what happened he realized the city wasn't safe for her, and brought her here. And as soon as he did we all realized who she was. I insisted that she stay here, even though she wants to leave; I can't let her leave. Fisk will almost certainly kill her if he finds her, and I would have failed her again."

                Matt drained the last of his iced tea. "If she is as strong-willed as you describe, if she doesn't really want to stay here she won't. Your security systems were designed to keep intruders out, not to keep people in. Short of locking her up in one of your cells, if she wants to leave you won't be able to stop her."

                "I know," Xavier said. "I asked her to give us a chance. If she's very unhappy, I'll make arrangements for her to live somewhere else."

                Matt shook his head. "I've 'seen' a little bit of your mansion. She's not going to be happy here. She'll have trouble just getting around."

                Xavier sighed. "I have to admit, I haven't got the slightest idea what a blind person would require. I've never had to deal with that particular disability. Part of the reason I asked you to come here is to suggest things I can do to make living here easier."

                Matt snorted. "Tell the women who live here not to rearrange the furniture. That's the first thing. She will have to memorize where everything is, and constant rearranging of furniture and what's on it will confuse her." He tipped his head back, thinking. "Have raised labels made for everything. Anywhere there's writing for anyone to see, put a raised label under it. It doesn't have to be Braille, though that would help. Another thing you could do is have her dresser knobs replaced."

                "What?" Xavier frowned.

                Matt explained. "If there's a different knob on each drawer of her dresser getting dressed will be easier. Also, make sure the water hookups on any tap she might use are the same. The hot water always on the left, the cold always on the right; otherwise she'll turn on a tap expecting cold water and it will be hot. If some of the taps are the same and some are different she'll be discouraged and she'll stop using them. 

                "Label the canisters in the kitchen. Rearrange the contents of the cupboards so that all the cereals are in one, canned vegetables are in the other, and so forth. Then label the outside of the cupboards according to what's in them. It'll be easier for her to find what she needs."

                Xavier sighed. "I never thought about all of that. I never thought about what the world must look like to someone who can't see."

                Matt smiled. "Here's something to do. You can't, obviously, but have one of the women go through the mansion with a blindfold on. It'll give her an idea what your friend needs and doesn't need." He set his glass down, and said, "Perhaps you might consider…when the current business comes to a head, I am in need of a secretary. My apartment is two rooms; I don't use the other one. She's welcome to stay with me; my apartment's already set up for a non-seeing person. My computer has Braille characters on its keys; and my partner could proofread anything she types up. She can learn to handle the phone easily; and everything in my office is labeled, so organizing would be easy. Maybe you might consider asking if she would be willing to share space with me."

                Xavier's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I shall do so," he said as Matt rose. "This is an extremely generous offer. I will tell Amy about it; she could certainly benefit from having the help of another non-seeing person around." 

                Matt held up a hand for silence, and Xavier stopped at that imperious gesture. From out in the hall they heard Bobby's voice. "We're on the ground floor, Amy. Just a little farther to the kitchen, and from there to the Rec Room and the medlabs. Hank will have something there for that burn."

                Xavier hastened to the door of his study and opened it. Bobby was helping Amy make her way along the hallway; she was dressed on pajama bottoms and a spaghetti-strap tank top that carefully left her back uncovered. He saw a great deal of red skin there that wasn't all due to the beating; and she was sobbing. "Amy!" he exclaimed. "Amy, what happened?"

                Bobby answered for her. "She turned on the hot tap in the shower instead of the cold one," he said grimly. "The hot water burned her back. I'm trying to get her down to the medlabs now." He saw Xavier's guest, standing beside him in the door to the study, and blinked. 'Hello, Matt."

                Matt didn't answer. There was just enough of the Bach filtering out into the silent hallway to bounce gently off the forms of the two people Xavier was speaking to. One he recognized as Bobby Drake, the Iceman. The other…

                She had long, straight hair pulled back in a ponytail with the end pulled forward over her left shoulder. The sonar picture he was getting was of a pretty young woman with high cheekbones, a heart-shaped face, and firm chin with a pert, slightly upturned nose. She wasn't the prettiest he'd ever 'seen' (a vision of Elektra passed though his mind) but there was something about her that made him want to stare longer. He fought down his initial reaction and took her hand where it was held out slightly in front of her. "Hello," he said gently. "I'm Matt."

                "I'm Amy. Nice to meet you, Matt." She had the most wonderful voice; though untrained, it almost throbbed (to his ear) with vibrant tones. The sound waves produced from just that simple introduction flowed from her lips and wrapped around her, and he shivered with the beauty of it. Xavier glided backward, and Bobby took Amy off down the hall as Charles closed his study door.

                He looked with some bemusement as Matt stayed standing, staring at the closed study door with an odd smile hovering about his lips. "She is something, isn't she?" he said gently, to break Matt's introspection.

                Matt shook himself and turned away from the closed door abruptly. "Yes, she is. I've never heard a voice like hers before. A pity her life didn't go differently; she would make an excellent singer." He didn't take his seat again, but looked at Charles. "If there's nothing else, perhaps I might go? I had a fairly bad night last night. I wouldn't have come out tonight at all if you hadn't asked me to come."

                "Oh, no, I don't want to keep you," Xavier said, suddenly noting how stiffly the other man was moving. "What happened?"

                "Got hit by a stray bullet last night on Canal Street," Matt said, grimacing as he touched the bullet wound in his leg. He'd bandaged it as well as he could, but in the process of getting up to Xavier's Westchester estate had reopened the wound. "I got the bullet out, but it'll take some time to fully recover."

                Xavier knew Matt Murdock couldn't go to a hospital. How would a blind lawyer explain how he got shot? "Hank could take care of that for you," he said, gesturing to the bandage.

                "It's just a scratch--" Matt started to say.

                "Hank could look at it as soon as he's done with Amy," Xavier said. "It would be no trouble at all."

                Matt thought about that. He could see Amy again… "All right," he said, turning away from the window and pulling off his hood. "Thank you."

*                                                              *                                                              *

                Amy was lying face-down on the biobed when Matt and Xavier came in. Hank was spraying some sort of medication over her back, and nodded to Charles. "Charles, Matt, I shall be done momentarily," he said. "Amy, how does that feel now?"

                "Better," Amy said, her voice muffled by the pillow she had pulled in front of her mouth. Hank pulled off the rubber gloves he had been wearing, and Xavier saw a thick white cream smeared all over them. There was more of the stuff on Amy's back.

                "Go ahead and put your shirt back on," Hank said quietly. "The fixative I sprayed on your back will prevent any of the anesthetic cream from rubbing off on your clothing. What can I do for you, Mr. Murdock?"

                Matt had to struggle to keep his voice level and his mind on the conversation as Amy got up. She was wearing nothing  on top, and as she turned around, he could 'see' the outlines of small, full breasts just before she pulled her shirt back over her head. "Uh…I…uh, got shot last night," he said, forcing his thoughts back to the conversation. He pulled down the red leather pants he wore, then pulled the leg hem of his biker shorts up his thigh and showed Hank the clumsy bandage he'd put on it. 

                Hank tsked. "It's not a bad job for a blind man, Mr. Murdock, but you really should have had it looked at by a doctor."

                "And how many other doctors are there who would understand?" Matt shot back. "How does a blind lawyer manage to get himself shot?"

                Hank sighed. "True. Why don't you lie back while I get what I need?" Matt lay back on the bed Amy had just sat up on, and closed his eyes.

                Amy's ears pricked. "You're blind?"

                Matt smiled, though he knew she couldn't see it. "Yes," he said.

                "So am I." The interest in her voice was evident.

                "Yes, Charles was just telling me about you," he said. "It's not easy being blind, is it."

                "No, it's not." Amy paused. "Were you born that way?"

                "No, it was an accident," Matt said. "Chemical irritants injured my eyes. I've been blind since I was young."

                "I've been blind for four years." Amy's voice was soft. "I still find life hard."

                "It gets easier," Matt sucked in a breath as Hank started to unwind the bandage from his leg. "And you have a lot of friends here to help."

                "Yes," but Matt blinked, wondering what had happened to put that bitterness in her voice. Maybe if he got to know her more he could find out what had hurt her.

                Bobby spoke. "Amy, you're yawning, and Hank has to work. Come on. Let's get you up to bed."

                Amy stifled another yawn. "All right. Good night, Charles, Good night, Hank. Good night, Mr. Murdock."

                "Call me Matt. Good night, Amy."

                He sensed the smile. "Matt, then. Good night, Matt." And the door closed behind her.

                Matt made some small talk while Hank patched his leg up, but his mind was on the girl. And he was still thinking about her when he left the mansion much later.


	8. Feels Like Home

Chapter 8: Feels Like Home

                "BOBBY!"

                Amy lifted her face toward her room door as it opened. "Bobby? Is that you?" she asked, unnecessarily, since she could smell the scent of his aftershave wafting through the air.

                "Yeah," Bobby said as he quietly closed the door. "Hey, do me a favor, please? Don't tell Rogue I'm in here?" He slipped through her room and vanished into the bathroom.

                Amy sighed as her fingers returned to the page of the book in her lap. "What have you done now?"

                Bobby didn't get a chance to answer. There came a knock on Amy's door from someone in the hallway,. And then Rogue stuck her head in. "Amy? Is Bobby in heah?"

                Amy smiled. Placing her left index finger to her lips, she pointed toward her bathroom with her right. Rogue tiptoed in, patted Amy's hand in a silent acknowledgement of her help, then pushed open Amy's bathroom door. There was a thud from the door, then a muttered curse, and Rogue yelled, "Gotcha!" She dragged Bobby out of the bathroom and tossed him onto the floor. "How dare yah put dye in my shampoo! Do yah know how many times Ah'm gonna hafta wash mah hair tah get all of this goo outta it?"

                "Bobby!" Amy closed her book and slid off her bed. "You put dye in Rogue's shampoo?"

                "He sure did," Rogue spat. "Yah can't see it, but mah hair's all black now!" Her voice dripped disgust.

                Bobby started to laugh. He couldn't help it. Rogue was standing there with her hair dripping wetly down her back…and the strands were now a bizarre mix of white, black, and auburn streaks. He clutched his sides, howling with laughter as Rogue fumed. Amy dropped to the floor, figuring out where he was by following the sound of his laughter, then pounced on him and started tickling him. Rogue joined in, and soon all three were rolling around on the floor, laughing helplessly as they tickled each other. Bobby was getting the worst of it, however; he soon decided that a hasty retreat was in order, squirmed out from under the pile, and ran for the door. Rogue pursued him hotly, and Amy fell back onto her bed, laughing.

                It had only been a week since Amy had come to the mansion, but it was already feeling like home. Everyone accepted her as though she were one of them, not an outsider, and had included her in their activities and plans without a trace of awkwardness.  Amy was grateful. After being alone for so long, it was nice having friends to laugh with, do things with (even if she couldn't see, there were still things she'd found she could do without needing sight.) Ororo had found out that Amy was good with plants; so Amy spent time outdoors each day, helping Ororo water and tend to the plants on the grounds and in the greenhouse. She could feel the soil and tell if it needed water or not.

                She wiped her streaming eyes and flopped on her stomach down on her bed. They had all been so nice; Bobby, especially. She was still terrified that the Kingpin was looking for her; Charles had kept in touch with Daredevil and learned from him that the city still wasn't safe for her. Every time Bobby went out, he would bring something back for her. Small things, at first, like candy for her and toys for Carl, but then he found out from Jean that Amy really loved to read. He'd scoured the city's bookshops until he found one that sold Braille books. Amy now had a collection of books that she could read in subjects she liked, and the collection got bigger all the time.

                Bobby, however, wasn't her only source for books. Matt Murdock was an occasional visitor to the mansion. He not only brought her books to read, but he had begun to teach her how to fight. She wasn't very good; her sense of hearing wasn't as acute as his; but she was getting better. Matt was a patient, gentle teacher; she liked him, though there was some kind of secret about him that she didn't know about. He would sometimes stop in the middle of a sentence and change the topic. It confused her. She had figured that it had something to do with the vigilante of Hell's Kitchen, Daredevil…but she couldn't figure out how that related to Matt, and he wouldn't have answered her question. So she left that alone, preferring to deal with her own problem: Bobby and Matt.

                She was torn. On the one hand was Bobby, bubbly and full of life; and so kind and gentle and caring as well. Matt was different. He was serious, brooding, but still gentle and caring, in his own way. She knew Matt cared about her; she cared about him too, but not in quite the same way she cared about Bobby. She had finally admitted that she was in love with Bobby to herself; but she loved Matt too.

                She sighed. She wished she had someone she could talk to. Jean had told her gently that Amy could come and talk to her if she needed to, but Amy was still struggling with feelings of resentment for her, Charles, and Scott, and couldn't bring herself to talk to Jean about her feelings.

                She slid a bookmark into her book and put it on her bedside table, then reached over to her clock. It was a regular round face, with hands, but this had been designed for non-seeing people. Matt had gotten it for her. The numbers were raised, and the hands couldn't be moved by a simple touch. Her fingers felt down the minute hand, then the hour hand, then felt the number closest to each. It was ten minutes till one; She had to start out now if she was to meet Ororo out in the greenhouse.

                She slid her feet into her sneakers and stood up. Charles had left orders that the furniture wasn't to be moved; and that had simplified her life a lot. She was still unsure of herself in some of the not often used rooms, but she could get around most of the mansion with no help from her cane. And the back was easy; there was a paved path from the back door to the greenhouse.

                She avoided the hall table out of habit; the same with the kitchen table. She felt for the lock on the back door, snapped it open, and went out.

                It was hot! She gasped in the thick humidity of the air for a moment, accustoming herself to the heat, then headed down the path to the greenhouse. The temperature inside would be a little cooler than it was out here due to the (slightly) less humidity.

                "Hello," came Ororo's calm, even tones as Amy entered. "We will not be here long today; it is too hot. Even for me." Amy smiled at the smile she heard in Ororo's voice. She knew the older woman was from Africa, where it was almost always hot. "When we are done here we are going swimming. Will you join us?"

                "Swimming?" Amy stopped short. Could she do that without being able to see?

                "Charles has a pool on the east lawn. We can teach you to swim, if you do not know how."

                "Uh, well, I had swimming lessons when I was younger. That's not a problem. I was just thinking…don't I need to be able to see?"

                "Not really," Ororo said. "we tend to close our eyes underwater to prevent the chlorine from stinging. As long as you are checking to see which side of the pool is the shallow end before you jump in you should be all right." 

                "Okay," Amy said, thinking how good the cool water would feel against her heated skin.

                "Good. Now, if I am not intruding…what are those dark spots on your shirt?"

                "My shirt?" Amy put a hand up, feeling the wet patches on her shirt, and then laughed. 'Bobby was up to his old tricks again."

                "Oh, no," Ororo put down her watering can and went over to the girl. "What did he do, put ink in the wash again?"

                Amy giggled. "He did that once too?"

                Ororo chuckled. "Yes. He put a capsule of disappearing ink in Jean and Scott's clean laundry. When Jean started to fold the clothing, she found spots all over it. She thought Scott had simply left a pen in a pocket, so she put it all back in the basket and took it down to wash again. Only, by the time she got downstairs the ink had all disappeared and there was nothing on the clothing. She got mad at Bobby and gave him a migraine for an hour." She inspected the spot. "How did you get these?"

                "Bobby put dye in Rogue's shampoo. When she found out she got mad, and started chasing him. He tried to hide in my room. I told her where he was, and we both jumped him and tickled him. Her hair was still wet; I guess some of the dye that was in it got onto my shirt." Amy finished watering the plants on her side and stood up. "It's okay. It was all fun."

                Ororo smiled. "I hope Bobby used washable dye, or Rogue's going to be furious with him for a long time."

                "She said something about how long it would take to wash it all out, so I assume it was washable," Amy said, standing on a small stool to check the flowering plants in the hanging baskets above her head. "Bobby wouldn't use permanent stuff. He's a big joker, but it's all harmless. He'd never do anything to really hurt anyone."

                Ororo regarded the girl quietly as she heard the slightly defensive note in Amy's voice. "I know he would not, Amy. We have been friends for a long time." She paused for a moment. "We have been friends long enough for me to be able to tell when he is serious about girls. And he is serious about you. Amy, tell me something, just between us; are you serious about him too?"

                Amy froze. "Uh, I…" She floundered. Ororo took her arm and helped her down from the stool. 

                "Matt has been here a lot lately, and he seems to spend a great deal of his time in your company," Ororo said. "Amy, is it just friendship, or is it something else?"

                "I don't know," Amy whispered. "I love Bobby. I really do. He rescued me. But Matt cares so much…and he's teaching me so much…I can't help but care about him. I don't know."

                Ororo sighed as she hugged Amy. The girl stayed stiff in her arms for a moment, then relaxed and hugged Ororo back. "Amy. I understand you still feel some resentment toward Charles, Scott, and Jean, but please try to get over it. I know it is hard, but they all feel terribly guilty, and it is not easy for them, seeing what has happened to you. Charles feels so bad, watching you stumble about, and he knows if he had paid more attention to you what happened to you would not have happened."

                Amy tore herself out of Ororo's arms. "I can't," she said, tears spilling from her violet eyes. 'I can't forgive them for forgetting about me, because I can't forgive the guards or the other inmates. They abused me, they beat me and raped me and humiliated me, and then they blinded me. How am I supposed to forgive all of that?" Ororo clasped Amy in her arms in a tight hug, and Amy started to cry in earnest. "The guards would tie me to my cot every morning with my legs open, and then they'd leave my cell door open so that whoever wanted to use my body could just walk in and do what they wanted. They'd leave me there all day. It always hurt, first thing in the morning, but after two or three came it would be easier. But it would go on, and on, and on, all day, and by the time they'd come and untie me in the evening I hurt so much I could barely move. They'd drag me out to the yard, hose me down, then drag me back and shove me back in my cell. 

"They didn't even allow me to wear clothes most of the time; the only time I got to wear one of the prison uniforms was when they had inspections by someone outside the prison. I tried to complain once; when the inspector passed my cell I tried to call for him, tell him what they were doing to me, and beg him to transfer me somewhere else. The warden told him I was delusional, and I was telling stories, and he didn't listen to me. He left. And as soon as he left the guards dragged me from my cell, took me out into the yard, stripped me, and whipped me with switches and barbed wire until I bled. When they were done they shoved me in The Coffin, in the solitary confinement level, and left me there for three days. The cuts got infected before they finally let me out, and when the cuts healed they left scars."

Amy was so lost in her misery that she didn't hear the door to the greenhouse open. Ororo looked up and saw Jean, standing in the doorway with wide eyes and a shocked expression. The tall silver-haired woman wondered how much of Amy's words Jean had heard.

**All of it,** Jean said into Ororo's head. **Oh God, 'Ro, I didn't know she suffered so much! Bobby mentioned she had a few more scars on her back, but I didn't ask, and he didn't volunteer the information. No wonder she can't forgive us.**

_She will eventually,_ Ororo thought. _It will just take time._ _At least she's talking about it. It will help_ _her come to grips with what has happened. Jean, if you do not mind, I am going to try to calm her down and get her to stop crying before she gets sick. She has already said she would like to go swimming, so let me take her in, get her dressed, and bring her out. We shall see you and the others by the pool soon, all right?_

**All right.** Jean backed out of the door, closing it softly behind her, and Ororo began to try to calm Amy down.


	9. The Kingpin

Chapter 9: The Kingpin

                "I hope you have good news for me." There was thunder in Fisk's voice as he heard one of his lieutenants approach his desk. He knew already that the man didn't, however; which was why he didn't turn around. His gaze was fixed on the view of the city spread out below him.

                The man swallowed hard. They hadn't found the girl yet; which meant that Mr. Fisk was going to be very angry indeed. And he was a man that everyone carefully tried to avoid getting angry. "I-I-I'm sorry, Mr. Fisk," he stuttered. "There's been no sign of her."

                The Kingpin looked out at the city spread out below his window. His city. And somewhere out there, his girl was out there, no doubt hiding with someone who dared to defy The Kingpin. He growled in his throat. "Bring in the club owner," he said, turning away from the window.

                Andover came stumbling in on the end of a shove. Fisk didn't offer him a chair. Instead, he glared at the club's owner. "You told me the girl had no friends," he said. "And here it is two weeks since she left here, and my people have seen nothing of her. They are either hopelessly inept, or you are lying to me to protect the girl. Which is it?"

                Andover quaked harder in his shoes. "I'm not lying, I swear! She don't got any friends that I know of! I never seen her with anyone!" He shivered with fear; he had been called here a number of times since the disastrous night Amy had vanished. Each time he had gone home with some kind of bodily injury, sustained while the Kingpin and his men questioned him as to the girl's whereabouts.

                "She must have someone," Fisk said angrily, advancing on the man. "Someone is hiding her, or she would have been found already. My people are not that inept; therefore, you must be lying to me." Fisk swung his cane.

                Andover screamed in shock and pain as the heavy silver head of the cane hit his kneecap and shattered the bone. He crumpled on the floor, screaming, clutching his leg. "I don't know. I swear. Don't kill me, please don't kill me, I swear…" he lapsed into hysterical blubbering.

                Fisk stared at the handle of his cane. It was smeared with blood. He sighed. "Crandall."

                His lieutenant came forward. "Have this cleaned, will you?" he handed the cane to him.

                "Yes Mr. Fisk," Crandall nodded, taking the cane.

                "And this," Fisk nudged the sobbing man on the floor in front of him with the toe of one shoe. "Take him back to his club. Mr. Andover. I want my thousand back, do you understand? You will give it to Crandall here." Andover nodded through his tears of misery, apparently thinking he had escaped the Kingpin's clutches alive. He got up and started to limp toward the door. He didn't see Fisk draw a finger across his own throat in a cutting motion, and Crandall nodded.

                They got into the black Rolls Royce, Andover still sniffling, Crandall silent. They remained that way for the remainder of the ride back to the Starlight. Andover got out first and led the way to the back employee entrance, which he unlocked with a key on his key ring. He led Crandall back to his office, where he opened the wall safe and extracted a thick wad of bills. He counted out a thousand with trembling, shaking hands, and handed them to Crandall. Crandall counted it out again, double-checking to make sure it was all there, then nodded curtly and put it in the inner pocket of his coat. Andover sighed with relief and sank down into his desk chair, then bent over to pull up the leg of his pants so he could inspect the damage.

                Crandall leaned over and yanked the man's head up by the hair. Andover gasped with surprise, then his face twisted into an expression of pleading as he saw Crandall's gun. Crandall rested the muzzle, with its silencer firmly screwed onto its barrel, against the forehead for a second before he pulled the trigger. 

                Blood spattered all over the office.

                Crandall sighed, wiped the muzzle of the gun with the handkerchief in his pocket, then slipped the gun back to its hidden pocket. Going to the still-open wall safe, he took the thick wad of bills out, tucked that into his pocket too, and turned to leave. His hand was just on the doorknob when there came a quiet knock at the door. His heart rate picked up, and he stepped back, whipping his gun out and aiming it at the door, which slowly opened.

                Amy paused as she pushed open the door. Something hadn't felt right since she walked in, and once or twice she had almost turned back to the car waiting outside, with Bobby at the wheel. But she had to pick up her paycheck, and the four hundred Mr. Andover had promised her for her day with the Kingpin. Bobby had tried to convince her not to go back; He had pleaded, in fact, with her not to go there. But she had been firm; she had earned that money, and she wasn't going to let him walk off with it. Charles had resisted, strenuously, but when he saw that she was resolved on going, he had told Bobby to drive her downtown to get her paycheck. Amy had figured that should be protection enough; she didn't think Andover would try anything with Bobby there to protect her. Bobby didn't think so either.

                The stench of blood hit her almost as soon as she opened the door. She gagged on the smell, momentarily nauseated. And that one single second was long enough.

                Strong hands grabbed her from behind, and an arm across her throat cut off her air. She choked and gasped, trying to get air into her lungs to scream. The arm across her throat made that impossible, and she whimpered as blackness claimed her mind.

                Crandall kept his arm tight across her throat, dragging her backward out of the office with him. He never noticed when the dark glasses and cane fell out of her hand. This was the girl Mr. Fisk was looking for; he would be well rewarded if he could bring her back with him. Still dragging her he made his way back down the dimly-lit hallway to the back employees' lot outside. The Rolls was here, the chauffeur waiting for him. He opened up the trunk, grabbing a coil of rope form it; he used it to tie the girl's hands together behind her back, and then threw her across the back seat. "Drive!" he ordered the chauffeur, and the long black car pulled out of the tiny back lot into traffic.

                Bobby's car was parked along the curb in front of the club. He watched the alley Amy had disappeared down, waiting for her to come back out, but saw nothing. He was about to get out and go check when a long, sleek black Rolls Royce pulled out of the alley and turned into traffic ahead of him. "No," he said to himself, "no, don't tell me…" he sprang out of the car and ran for the back door. 

                It was open. Full of misgiving now, he raced into the building, following the dim hall until he got to the door at the end, which was ajar. He smelled the blood before he saw it; all over the wall behind the desk, and in it was a man with a bullet hole drilled precisely in the middle of his forehead.

                Bobby gasped. "Amy!" he shouted, hoping that maybe she was still in the building somewhere, hiding from the person or persons who had done this. He listened carefully, but only the echo of his own shout met his ears. He took a step toward the door, and his foot stepped on something that crunched under his foot. He looked down.

                It was Amy's glasses.

*                                                              *                                                              *

                Fisk heard the quick patter of Crandall's shoes coming down the hall. He frowned. Beside his lieutenant's steps there was the almost, but not quite silent sound of rubber-soled sneakers slapping the cool floor of the hall. He turned as both sets of steps stopped in front of his office door, and then there was a knock at the door. "Come in," he said.

                And who should walk in but his lieutenant and his quarry! Crandall gave Amy a hard shove that sent her sprawling on the floor. She gathered her body together, trying to scramble up, but even as she regained her feet Fisk grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back to meet his gaze.

                Amy sucked in a breath. The scent of the cologne drifting around this man was quite distinctive, as was the smell of the tobacco in the expensive cigars he smoked. Fisk. Oh, God. She should have listened to Bobby and Charles. She wanted to scream at him to leave her alone, to let her go, but she couldn't make a sound for the tape slapped over her lips. Nor would pleading have done her any good.

                "So." The voice was calm but malevolent. "My prodigal returns. Where did you find her, Crandall?"

                "I was doing what you asked me to do with Andover when she walked in. Wanted to get her paycheck from Andover, apparently."

                Fisk raised an eyebrow, and Crandall opened his jacket pocket, taking out the wad of bills and the thousand from Andover. He handed them both to his employer, who raised an eyebrow. "He doesn't need the money anymore, Mr. Fisk," Crandall shrugged. "If I left it there someone else would steal it. I'd rather it go to you." Fisk took the two wads of bills, then pocketed the thousand and handed the rest to Crandall. "Consider it your reward for binging back my errant piece of property," he said. "As for you, my dear…" he grabbed a handful of Amy's hair and dragged her across the main office into the smaller one he conducted his most private business in. "Crandall. Leave a message with the secretary that I'm not to be disturbed," he called just before the office door closed. Crandall nodded to empty air, and turned to leave the office. Just as he closed the door he thought he heard a scream of pain coming from the inner office.

                He left the message with the secretary, as ordered, then, having no other orders for the day, decided that he'd go spend some of that money he'd just gotten.

*                                                              *                                                              *

                "I should have gone with her!" Bobby paced Charles's study floor restlessly. "I shouldn't have let her go in alone, I should have gone in with her. We'd have had a chance to fight Fisk's thugs, if I had…"

                "We must find out where she has been taken. Fisk has so many places all over the city that it would be impossible to search them all…" Charles picked up the phone and dialed a number.

                Matt picked up the phone on the second ring. "Murdock and associates." God, he hated being a secretary.

                "Matt," came an even, smooth voice with an undercurrent of worry to it. It took a moment for Matt to recognize the voice, and when he did his feet, resting casually on the top of his desk, hit the floor. "Charles. What can I do for you?"

                "Amy is missing," and Matt's heart skipped a beat. "She went to the Starlight to collect her paycheck from her boss; Bobby went with her. He stayed in the car waiting when she went in. She never came out. Bobby went in to find her and found Amy's boss dead from a gunshot wound and the safe riffled. And Amy's dark glasses and cane were in the office too, dropped on the floor. Matt, where would the Kingpin take Amy?"

                Matt smiled grimly. "So your team can go in and get her out? Forgive me, Charles, but they won't get within ten feet of her. Fisk will see that big knot of yellow and blue spandex coming from a mile away. Let me scout around, see what I can do." He hung up before the older man could protest, and got his cane as he rose from his chair. It had been an extremely slow day; it wouldn't hurt to close up a little early.

                As he walked down the pavement toward home, the sound of his cane tapping gently against the concrete, he thought. Where would Fisk be likely to take Amy? His home, like he had before? Maybe not. His lieutenant would have brought her to Fisk's office, first, but Fisk wouldn't have kept her there long. Long enough to rough her up, certainly (and Matt shuddered at the thought of what Fisk might do to Amy; her absence would have made him more furious, and he was more likely to hurt her badly.) But he'd save the heavy work for later when he got to…where? Matt frowned as he climbed the steps to his apartment.

                He felt his clock's face. Almost six. Hmm. Several hours of daylight left…but he couldn't afford to wait. He sat down and ate a light dinner, moving around his apartment with an ease borne of long familiarity with its contents, and then went to his bedroom. His hand found the catch that opened the secret compartment in the back of his armoire, and felt for the butter-soft, flexible red leather of his costume as Daredevil.

                It only took a few minutes to slip into the costume and smooth out the wrinkles. He reached for the compartment again, pulled out his modified cane, and checked it to see that everything still worked. Then he opened his window, wincing at the assault of street sound against his sensitive ears, and slipped out onto the fire escape. He got up onto the roof with little difficulty, then paused while he got his bearings and decided where he was going to go. He honestly couldn't figure out where Fisk might take Amy. Somewhere close to Central Park, maybe; it would be easy to dump her body there. Or possibly the docks; The Kingpin owned a couple of warehouses on Canal Street. It would be so easy to dump Amy's body into the river when he was done with her.

                Matt thought that one over. Probably not. The entire underworld knew that a blind girl had evaded Fisk for two weeks, and Fisk might think that regular shopkeepers would mean he was weak. He would rough her up himself, maybe, then let his chief hired thug Bullseye have a turn with her. Then they'd kill her, mark her somehow, and drop her body conspicuously somewhere in the middle of the city as an example to everyone.

                He headed for Fisk's office. Fisk's lieutenants would likely be talking among themselves, and he could maybe glean some information from listening to the talk.


	10. Rescue

Chapter 10: Rescue

                "Get up."

                Amy didn't move. She had her teeth gritted against the awful pain in her body, which flared into life as the hard boot prodded her bruised ribs again. "Get up."

                Bullseye didn't wait for her to respond. He grabbed her arm and hauled her upright, to face the Kingpin. Fisk cupped her chin in his hand and stared into her sightless eyes. "Where have you been hiding? Who has been hiding you?"

                Amy still refused to answer. 

                She gritted her teeth as Bullseye shook her again, so hard her teeth rattled. Her front teeth closed on her tongue, and she stifled a cry as she tasted blood in her mouth. 

                She could not tell him about the X-Men. She couldn't. Charles has told her about the mansion, and about their double lives, and she knew it was a secret she had to guard with her life. So she remained silent.

                It wasn't hard, really. Fisk and Bullseye weren't too imaginative; they hadn't done anything to her that she hadn't experienced before in Mount Haven. Granted, her body had forgotten how much some of those things hurt, and she had to fight the urge to cry out with the pain and humiliation, but the one tiny thought in the back of her mind that kept her from telling them what they wanted to know was the thought of what would happen to the X-Men, and especially Bobby, if she told them what she knew. So she gritted her teeth and endured the pain, the battering her body was taking, the humiliation she was feeling, and kept silent.

                Fisk growled in anger. "Forget it," he said. "She's not going to tell me. Crandall--"

                "Wait, Mr. Fisk," Bullseye interjected. "I got some other things I want to try, I just can't do them here. Too messy. Lemme take her somewhere I can work on her undisturbed. You got that warehouse by the docks, right? Lemme take her there."

                Fisk nodded. "Crandall!" The man appeared silently. "Take the girl and Mr. Bullseye down to the dock warehouse, and bring Mr. Bullseye back when he is done. When she's given us the information we want, I want her body dumped into the river, all right? I want no one to think they can get away with withholding information from me. This is my city, I own it."

                Amy sucked in a sharp breath. So they were going to kill her. She knew they would, as soon as she had realized she was back in his hands. Now all she had to do was hold onto the secret they were trying to get her to reveal until Bullseye got tired of hurting her and killed her.

                She stumbled along blindly, propelled forward and around corners by Bullseye's rough shoving. She was almost nude, and the coolness of the air raised goosebumps as they shoved her through a door. She wasn't given any time to take in her surroundings; Bullseye shoved her again.

                He let go of her arm for that barest fraction of a second, and she wrenched herself away from him and tried to run. It wasn't easy; her hands were tied in front of her by rope wrapped around her wrists. She still tried.

                Bullseye smiled and drew his gun. The girl couldn't see it, but they were in a parking garage; there was no way for her to get out. He drew his gun calmly, aimed, and fired.

                Amy screamed as her leg went out from under her. The bullet hit the back of her thigh, grazing bone on its way out the front of her leg, and running was impossible with her leg muscle torn like that. She fell, sobbing in agony, curling into a miserable ball on the hard concrete. Two pairs of hands grabbed her arms and dragged her backwards, and fire erupted in her leg. She screamed.

                Crandall sighed. Digging into his pocket, he came up with a handkerchief and stuffed it into her mouth, effectively silencing her cries, then unlocked the trunk of the black Lincoln and shoved her into it. He grabbed her ankles and pushed her knees up to her chest in order to fit her in. Amy sobbed in fresh agony as more blood ran from the wound, but neither man paid attention to her pain. The trunk was slammed, and seconds later, she felt the car rock as Crandall got in the front. A motorcycle started up beside the car, it's engine growling menacingly, and then started to pull away. The car must have followed it, because the sound of the motorcycle engine didn't fade away. She guessed that Bullseye must be on the motorcycle, and Crandall must be following him. To the docks. She bit back her sobs with an effort. _Just a_ _little longer_, she told herself. _Just a little longer, and it will be all over. They'll kill me, and I'll finally be free of all this pain and misery._

                Tears filled her eyes, not of pain, but of sorrow. Bobby. Would he miss her when she was gone? And Carl. Would someone take care of him, or would he return to being a street stray? And Charles…oh, Charles. She had forgiven him; the kindness he'd shown her the last couple of weeks, all the little things he'd done to make her room and the mansion easier for her to navigate, allowing her to keep Carl even though no one else was allowed to have pets…she hadn't had a chance to tell him she forgave him. She believed he knew she'd forgiven him, but she hadn't told him. She hoped he'd understand. All she could do now was hang onto the secret he'd given her about their true identities and not reveal it, no matter how much pain she was in.

                The car went over a pothole, suddenly, and she howled in anguish behind the cloth filling her mouth. Something in the trunk had touched the exit wound in the front of her leg. She arched forward, ignoring the pain it was causing her bruised back, and tried to move the offending object away from her leg.

                She froze. It was a piece of glass. As she grasped it, its sharp edges cut her finger, and she gasped. If it was sharp enough to cut her fingers, would it be sharp enough to cut her ropes too? She turned the sliver of glass around in her hands and started to saw at the rope.

                She was concentrating so hard on what she was doing that when the car came to a stop she almost cut her own hand. The motorcycle engine died, and seconds later she felt the car shift as Crandall got out. Seconds later, she felt a rush of cold air on her half-nude body as the trunk lid was opened. Bullseye grabbed her ankles and pulled her out of the trunk, ignoring her cry as her head hit the bumper before striking the ground and landing in a puddle of some fetid liquid.

                The stench was terrible. This was definitely the docks. Canal Street was a part of town ignored by everyone but homeless people and criminals, and used to unload drugs and other illicit substances at night. Amy choked as the stuff soaked her hair and splashed all over her hands. She hoped the stuff was just water, and not something else, or she might get an infection…

                She caught herself, and almost laughed. This was going to be her last night alive. She wouldn't have to worry about getting an infection in the cuts on her hands.

                Bullseye dragged her upright and shoved her forward through the door into the warehouse. Amy turned the sliver of glass around in her hand and tucked it into the rope beside her skin. She might still be able to try and escape here; if she got away from this pair once she might be able to do so again. She could get away, run, find someone who could help her. Someone would, at least, call the police if they saw a half nude (she was wearing only her t-shirt and briefs; everything else had been stripped from her before her first beating back at the Kingpin's office. She closed her eyes as someone yanked her forward by her wrists, and prayed that whoever it was wouldn't find the sliver of glass.

                Bullseye looked at the ropes, and at Amy's hands. Her fingers were almost purple from trapped blood; Fisk had tied the ropes too tight, and Amy could barely feel her fingers anymore.

                Amy gasped as Bullseye tugged at her shirt, tearing it off her body, but remained silent as he yanked her bound wrists up in front of her face and held them there a moment. Then something metallic brushed her bleeding fingers, and suddenly her hands were being pulled over her head as she heard more chain rattling. She whimpered as her hands were pulled upwards, further and further, until her toes just barely brushed the floor. Amy was stretched between the hook and the floor, every muscle in her body tight, shaking as she waited to see what they would do to her next.

                The thick, heavy belt slammed into the tight, aching muscles of her legs, and Amy jerked, crying in pain…

*                                                              *                                                              *

                Matt could feel the vibration of sound against the glass of the skylight, but he couldn't figure out what was happening inside. He felt for a catch on the skylight, found none, and cursed under his breath. As silent as a cat, he descended from the roof and crept around the other side of the building, searching for another way in. He circled the dilapidated building twice before he felt the edges of a corrugated metal door held closed by a rusty padlock. The padlock was easy to pick, and he slipped inside silently, holding his breath.

                The first thing he heard was the sharp crack of something striking something else. The sound waves showed him the inside of the warehouse. It was empty except for the usual detritus piled up in corners; homeless people's cardboard boxes, rags, empty bottles and broken glass, and here and there a used needle. He skirted it all carefully, being careful not to make a sound, and reached the storage area of the warehouse. 

                He sucked in a sharp breath. Amy hung from a hook-and-pulley affair dangling from a warehouse-sized cargo crane, her body stretched between the hook and her toes just barely gripping the floor.  He could hear her muffled sobs of agony as Bullseye struck her with the belt, over and over again, on the stretched muscles and tendons of her body. He could smell blood, and suspected it was from the oozing wound in her leg that he saw faintly outlined on her thigh. As much blood as that was, she was going to go into shock soon if it wasn't stopped. Her writhing wasn't doing any good either. She was keeping the wound open by twisting.

                He crouched there, in the shadows, trying to come up with a way to get her free. He decided to try the direct approach, and surprise them, when suddenly, to both his and their surprise, Amy dropped from the hook and hit the concrete floor. He heard the tinkle of glass as it hit the floor, and silently congratulated her on her ingenuity. Bullseye must be slipping, or he hadn't thought her enough of a threat to search her thoroughly. Amy scrambled to her feet and began running, blindly, the way they'd come. Matt heard a crash as she slammed up against the door she had come in (which Bullseye hadn't bothered locking after he'd come in) and then she was through and out in the open air.

                Matt fired his grappling hook at Bullseye. The metal hook ricocheted off the concrete roof support right behind him and wound around the man's body, pinning his arms to his side and pinning his legs together. Then he took off after Amy.

                "Amy!" he bellowed, when he didn't see her. "Amy, where are you?"

                "Help!" came a soft cry, and he heard the soft sound of her bare feet racing back down the dock just before she threw herself in his arms. "Help me, please, they hurt me, please help me get away from here…" He brought his arms up to wrap around her. 

                "Come on," he said. "He won't take long to get himself free--"

                The sharp report of a gun stopped him. Amy released her breath in a great sigh, all at once, and fell backward. Matt, caught by surprise, didn't let go of her. Neither one realized how close to the edge of the dock they were.

                Amy went limp, and dragged them both over the edge into the roiling, dark water immediately under the dock.

                Matt had the presence of mind to not let go of her. He reached out as they sank underwater and touched one of the dock's pilings, then wrapped his arm around it and hung on. Bullets whizzed into the water where he and Amy had fallen in; if he hadn't reacted as quickly as he had, they both would have bullets in them now. He counted the bullets. Four, then there was a pause as whoever it was reloaded his gun (it wasn't Bullseye; it must have been whoever had driven the car here. Matt cursed himself. He should have figured out where the other guy was when he first went in. He'd have to watch that. Then six more bullets struck the water. Matt waited for a few seconds before surfacing for air. He wrapped his legs around the piling, ignoring the slime that coated the piling. Dirt could be washed off; he had to worry about both their lives first. He pulled Amy's head above water, then clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp for air as he listened to the voices on the dock above.

                Bullseye: "Damn, I didn't even see that friggin' devil man! Where are they?"

                The other voice responded, and Matt bit his lip. Crandall. Fisk's right-hand man. He had personally marked the man for death; if he didn't have Amy in his arms now, he'd try taking both of them out now. But he had to take care of her first.

                Crandall: "Went down there. I shot into the water. Look at all that blood. They gotta be dead. They haven't come up yet."

                Bullseye: "F***!Fisk is gonna blow a gasket."

                Crandall: "I won't tell him if you don't. It'll be my neck too if he finds out."

                Bullseye: "We'll tell him we killed her and dumped her body in the water. The cops never find half the bodies we dump here; they won't find her, and he won't know. Come on. It's getting cold, I wanna go."

                Matt waited until the sound of the motorcycle and the car faded in the distance before he hauled himself and Amy up on the dock. She had fainted with the pain of the bullet striking her body, but the shock of hitting the cold water had woken her. She clung to him as he pulled her up, and then sat beside him gasping. Matt let her rest for a short time, then wrapped his arm around her, supporting her so she wouldn't have to put weight on her wounded leg. "We're not far from my place," he said. "Can you make it there?" Amy nodded wearily, and they started to make their way back to his apartment.


	11. Matt's Apartment

Chapter 11: Matt's Apartment

                Matt paused on the pavement under his apartment window, feeling the cold metal of the fire escape under his fingers. He wasn't going to be able to get Amy up those steps. The girl was hanging on by sheer will alone; she was physically drained from shock and blood loss from the bullet wounds as well as exhaustion from whatever the Kingpin had done to her. Matt gritted his teeth. He would exact a price from Fisk someday, for what Amy had gone through. Right now, however, he had to get Amy cared for. "Amy," he leaned over her, "Can you sit and wait right here? I'll be right back." He would go in, change, and come out the regular way so that no one would see him in the Daredevil costume.

                Amy nodded, just the barest twitch of her head, and Matt helped her sit down against the wall, her back braced against the rough brick. "I'll be right back," he said again, to reassure her, and headed up the metal fire escape steps.

                Amy sagged back against the brick wall at her back. She ached so much. The bullet wound in her leg throbbed. The other bullet, the one that had pushed her backward off the docks and landed Matt and herself in the water, had embedded itself in her shoulder. She'd fainted, briefly, but the shock of hitting cold water revived her quickly.

                She wondered groggily where Matt had come from. She had burst out that door, running the way she thought she'd come, and heard his voice. She knew immediately it was his. And he had protected her, caring for her, on the long trip back from the docks to wherever she was now. He had taken off his own jacket, draping it over her shoulder to give her some covering over her nude upper body.

                She felt the jacket now. The leather was tailored to fit him, that much was obvious. She had been unable to zip it up over her breasts. She felt the stuff. Butter soft, probably skintight, although it was so waterlogged now that she wondered if it would have to be replaced. Her hands stopped when she felt an embossed sigil on the breast of the jacket. She traced the letters with her fingers, determined that they were two interlocked D's. She sat pondering that for a moment before she realized their significance. She'd  seen the interlocked D's on a news report long ago, on TV, when she still had her sight; it was the mark of Daredevil, the Man Without Fear. Matt was Daredevil? It was inconceivable to her. Matt was blind.

                "Amy?" Matt spoke softly at her elbow.

                Amy turned her face to his. "You're…you're Daredevil?!"

                Matt saw her fingers caressing the interlocked D's on his jacket, and sighed. "Not so loud," he said quietly. "Yes, I'm Daredevil. It's a secret. Come on, let's get you inside, and I'll call Charles and let him know you're here with me, and you're safe. He can have Hank come down here and take a look at your wounds. I don't want to take you to a hospital; it would be a little difficult to explain." He led Amy around the side of the building up to the front door.

                He led Amy into the apartment and steered her into the second bedroom, then tried to get her to lie down on the daybed in there. Amy balked. "I want to shower," she said. "I want to scrub his touch off my skin. Please?"

                Matt sighed. Taking her arm, he led her gently into the bathroom and guided her hands to the taps. "Don't use really hot water, or the bleeding will increase. Try not to touch the wounds at all." He pushed the bottle of shampoo into her hand. "Here's shampoo." He left the bathroom, and moments later heard the pipes rattle in the walls as she turned the water on. He went to the phone and dialed the mansion's number.

*                                                              *                                                              *

                Bobby seized the phone halfway through the first ring. "Xavier Institute…Matt? Matt, you have her?..Is she all right?…Oh, my God…Oh, no…I should have gone in there with her…Yes…yeah, I can do that…Hank and I will be there as soon as we can…tell her I'm on my way!" He slammed the phone down. "Matt's got her!" he told the waiting X-Men. "He found her down by the docks, got her to his apartment. She's been shot, in the leg and shoulder, but Matt says they're not fatal wounds. He didn't want to take her to a hospital—there'd be all kinds of questions asked—but wants Hank to come take a look at her."

                "Certainly," Hank said, rising from the kitchen table where they'd all been sitting, drinking coffee, unable to sleep from worry about what might be happening. "Give me a moment to get my things together, and we shall be on our way."

                There was a general air of relief as the others got up from the table. "Call us as soon as you know she's okay, please?" Jean begged Bobby as she got up from her chair.

                They were at Matt's apartment building in less than half an hour. Bobby took the steps two at a time, getting to the door before Hank had even gotten past the second floor landing. Matt opened the door at his first knock.

                The lights were on, probably for benefit of the guests, as Hank and Bobby both knew that lights weren't a necessity for a blind person. Matt directed them into his second bedroom, and Bobby sucked in a breath as he entered. "Amy?"

                Amy turned her face toward the door. "Bobby?" 

                Bobby swallowed hard. Amy's body was covered with bruises and cuts, and the hastily-put together dressing on her thigh and arm was already showing spots of blood from the still-bleeding wounds. Hank went to the head of the bed, immediately, and pulled the dressing away from her shoulder to look at it. Amy flinched as he touched her arm. "Easy," he said gently.

                "Oww. Please, don't touch it, it hurts," she moaned. Hank looked concerned, and switched on the lamp on the bedside table. He made a sound of disapproval, but began to treat it as Bobby turned to Amy. "Amy, I'm sorry," he said softly.

                "Don't be. It was my fault," she said. "I shouldn't have insisted that you wait outside. I should have let you come in with me." She bit her lip as something Hank was doing made her stiffen with pain, then relaxed with a soft sigh. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I shouldn't have gone in alone. Forgive me?"

                "Of course," Bobby said. He leaned over and gave her a kiss on her cheek. Amy kissed his cheek back, then lay back as Hank finished with her shoulder and started to dress her leg wound. Bobby held her hand as she flinched and gasped at the probing, then Hank said, "Bobby, will you come out here for a moment?"

                He closed the door before addressing both Matt and Bobby. "I regret to infringe upon your hospitality, Matt, but is there any way Amy could stay here for a few days? She's in no condition to be moved right now, and both her wounds show every sign of having contracted an infection. She shouldn't be moved now."

                Matt nodded. "No, I have no problem with her staying here. I actually offered to Charles to let her use my spare bedroom if she didn't wish to stay at the mansion. It will be no problem having her stay for a while."

                "How bad is it?" Bobby asked anxiously. Matt heard the tone in his voice, and realization dawned. The younger man loved Amy. And he knew she loved him too. The thought made him somewhat sad; he would have liked to take Amy out on a date. There hadn't been anyone for him since Elektra.  But Amy was Bobby's, and he'd never made it a habit to chase anyone else's girl. That was all right. Amy could still use a friend.

                He belatedly realized Hank had said something. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that? I was thinking about something else." 

                Hank said, "What time of day would be best for me to come and see her? The wounds will need to be redressed every day, and I'll have to bring medications. It would be best if you were home." 

                Matt thought. "I leave for the office every day around eight in the morning. We close at five in the afternoon, provided there are no late cases. I usually get home around seven, so anytime in the evening will be all right with me. I don't go out until nine or ten."

                Hank nodded. "I shall be by tomorrow at eight, then. Thank you."

                Matt held up his hands. "Don't mention it. It's not a problem. While she's here I can work on her knowledge of Braille shortcuts, and she'll have access to my library of Braille books, as well. She has been borrowing some occasionally. And I'll welcome the company."

                "Uhm…" Bobby hesitated. 'What about your…'other'…business?"

                Matt smiled. "She realized who I was when I rescued her. She felt the double D's on my jacket, ad she guessed. I'm not worried." His voice hardened. "Fisk tried everything he could to get her to tell him where she's been hiding and who's been hiding her. She never told him about you all. And I don't think she would have, either; she has an incredibly strong will." He smiled. "It will be no problem. Really."

                Hank opened the door. Amy had fallen asleep while they were talking, and was now curled up on the bed. Her breathing was shallow, and he could see the beginnings of a warm flush creeping over her face. Definitely an infection. He couldn't move her now. He closed the door again and took two bottles of pills from his bag. "When she wakes up give her one of each. One is an antibiotic to combat the infection, the other will bring her fever down and help her to sleep. She has to take one of each every six hours. And she has to have a lot of fluids. No milk. Water would be best, a little fruit juice would help too. Do you have that, or should I send Bobby out for some while we're here?"

                "I have that," Matt said. "She'll be all right. I'll make sure she takes the medicine."

                Bobby looked back through the back window at the retreating building as Hank drove back to the mansion. "Do you think she'll be okay?" he asked Hank.

                "She'll be fine, Bobby," Hank said reassuringly, clapping Bobby on the shoulder. "Now come on. Let's go home. Jean's waiting for a status report."

*                                                              *                                                              *

                That's it for this one.

                Hope you all liked it. I hadn't done a Bobby story yet, so I figured it would be nice to have him and Amy pair off. After all, they do say opposites attract, right? There may be another book in this series, focusing on this little love triangle developing between Matt, Bobby, and Amy, but if I do write it, it's probably going to be some time in the future, so don't look for it any time soon. I'm working on my next novella as well as working on the full-length novel 'Power Squared'.

                Next up, something a little different. I've gotten a sprinkling of Emails from people who tell me my writing is becoming a little predictable. I use the same theme. So, for my next book, I'm going to break with my usual theme and do something different. It's called 'Shape Shift', and the first chapter will go up probably on Friday. It's going to be a blend of movieverse and comicverse, and it will feature Rogue as the central character. She's going to befriend a student with an unusual problem…if you want to know what that problem is, you'll have to read it!

                See you all there for the next book!


End file.
